BOOKS  BY  SIR  ARTHUR  T.  QUILLER-COUCH 
PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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BROTHER  COPAS 


BROTHER  COPAS 


BY 

ARTHUR  QUILLER-COUCH 
C'Q") 


'And  a  little  Child  shall  lead  them." 

ISAIAH  xi.  6. 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK    :::::::::    1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BT 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  April,  1911 


TO   THE    GENTLE    READER 

IN  a  former  book  of  mine,  Sir  John  Constantino,  I 
expressed  (perhaps  extravagantly)  my  faith  in  my 
fellows  and  in  their  capacity  to  treat  life  as  a  noble 
sport.  In  Brother  Copas  I  try  to  express  something 
of  that  correlative  scorn  which  must  come  sooner  or 
later  to  every  man  who  puts  his  faith  into  practice. 
I  hold  the  faith  still;  but  that 

"He  who  would  love  his  fellow  men 
Must  not  expect  too  much  of  them" 

is  good  counsel  if  bad  rhyme.     I  can  only  hope  that 
both  the  faith  and  the  scorn  are  sound  at  the  core. 

For  the  rest,  I  wish  to  state  that  St.  Hospital  is  a 
society  which  never  existed.  I  have  borrowed  for  it 
certain  external  features  from  the  Hospital  of  St.  Cross, 
near  Winchester.  I  have  invented  a  few  external  and 
all  the  internal  ones.  My  "  College  of  Noble  Poverty  " 
harbours  abuses  from  which,  I  dare  to  say,  that  noble 
institution  is  entirely  free.  St.  Hospital  has  no  exist- 
ence at  all  outside  of  my  imagining. 

ARTHUR  QUILLER-COUCH 

THE  HAVEN  TOWER 
Feb.  16th,  1911 


2019724 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  MASTER  OF  ST.  HOSPITAL  ....  1 

II.  THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY      .    .  12 

III.  BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH      ...  29 

IV.  CORONA  COMES •    •    •  42 

V.  BROTHER  COPAS  ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFER- 
ENCE       56 

VI.  GAUDY  DAY 71 

VII.  Low  AND  HIGH  TABLES 82 

VIII.  A  PEACE-OFFERING 97 

IX.  BY  MERE  RIVER       105 

X.  THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 117 

XI.  BROTHER  COPAS  ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON    .  130 

XII.  MR.  ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE      ....  140 

XIII.  GARDEN  AND  LAUNDRY 150 

XIV.  BROTHER  COPAS  ON  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS  166 
XV.  CANARIES  AND  GREYCOATS 175 

XVI.  THE  SECOND  LETTER 184 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XVII.    PUPPETS       193 

XVIII.    THE  PERVIGILIUM 208 

XIX.    MERCHESTER  PREPARES 216 

XX.    NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL     ....  234 

XXI.    RECONCILIATION 249 

XXII.    MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST     .  261 

XXIII.  CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 273 

XXIV.  FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 285 

CONCLUSION ,  299 


BROTHER  COPAS 


BROTHER  COPAS 

CHAPTER  I 

THE   MASTER   OF   ST.    HOSPITAL 

"As  poor,  yet  making  many  rich;  as  having  nothing, 
and  yet  possessing  all  things  .  .  ." 

The  Honourable  and  Reverend  Eustace  John 
Wriothesley  Blanchminster,  D.D.,  Master  of  St.  Hos- 
pital-by-Merton,  sat  in  the  oriel  of  his  library  revis- 
ing his  Trinity  Gaudy  Sermon.  He  took  pains  with 
these  annual  sermons,  having  a  quick  and  fastidi- 
ous sense  of  literary  style.  "  It  is,"  he  would  observe, 
"one  of  the  few  pleasurable  capacities  spared  by  old 
age."  He  had,  moreover,  a  scholarly  habit  of  verify- 
ing his  references  and  quotations;  and  if  the  original, 
however  familiar,  happened  to  be  in  a  dead  or  foreign 
language,  would  have  his  secretary  indite  it  in  the 
margin.  His  secretary,  Mr.  Simeon,  after  taking  the 
Sermon  down  from  dictation,  had  made  out  a  fair 
copy,  and  stood  now  at  a  little  distance  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  writing-table,  in  a  deferential  attitude. 
1 


BROTHER  COPAS 

The  Master  leaned  forward  over  the  manuscript; 
and  a  ray  of  afternoon  sunshine,  stealing  in  between 
a  mullion  of  the  oriel  and  the  edge  of  a  drawn  blind, 
touched  his  bowed  and  silvery  head  as  if  with  a  bene- 
diction. He  was  in  his  seventy-third  year;  lineal  and 
sole-surviving  descendant  of  that  Alberic  de  Blanch- 
minster  (Albericus  de  Albo  Monasterio)  who  had 
founded  this  Hospital  of  Christ's  Poor  in  1137,  and 
the  dearest,  most  distinguished-looking  old  clergyman 
imaginable.  An  American  lady  had  once  summed 
him  up  as  a  Doctor  of  Divinity  in  Dresden  china;  and 
there  was  much  to  be  allowed  to  the  simile  when  you 
noted  his  hands,  so  shapely  and  fragile,  or  his  com- 
plexion, transparent  as  old  ivory — and  still  more  if 
you  had  leisure  to  observe  his  saintliness,  so  delicately 
attuned  to  this  world. 

"As  having  nothing,  and  yet  possessing  all  things." 
— The  Master  laid  his  forefinger  upon  the  page  and 
looked  up  reproachfully.  "  &>?  prjSev  e^oi/re? — my  good 
Simeon,  is  it  possible?  A  word  so  common  as  a*?! 
and  after  all  these  years  you  make  it  peris pomenon!" 

Mr.  Simeon  stammered  contrition.  In  the  matter 
of  Greek  accents  he  knew  himself  to  be  untrust- 
worthy beyond  hope.  "  I  can't  tell  how  it  is,  sir,  but 
that  w9  always  seems  to  me  to  want  a  circumflex,  being 
an  adverb  of  sorts."  On  top  of  this,  and  to  make 
things  worse,  he  pleaded  that  he  had  left  out  the  ac- 
cent in  o><?  TTTo^ot',  just  above. 
2 


THE  MASTER  OF  ST.  HOSPITAL 

"H'm — as  poor,  and  yet  thankful  for  small  mer- 
cies," commented  the  Master  with  gentle  sarcasm. 
He  had  learnt  in  his  long  life  to  economise  anger. 
But  he  frowned  as  he  dipped  a  pen  in  the  inkpot  and 
made  the  correction;  for  he  was  dainty  about  his 
manuscripts  as  about  all  the  furniture  of  life,  and  a 
blot  or  an  erasure  annoyed  him.  "Brother  Copas," 
he  murmured,  "never  misplaces  an  accent." 

Mr.  Simeon  heard,  and  started.  It  was  incredible 
that  the  Master,  who  five-and-twenty  years  ago  had 
rescued  Mr.  Simeon  from  a  school  for  poor  choristers 
and  had  him  specially  educated  for  the  sake  of  his 
exquisite  handwriting,  could  be  threatening  dismissal 
over  a  circumflex.  Oh,  there  was  no  danger!  If 
long  and  (until  the  other  day)  faithful  service  were 
not  sufficient,  at  least  there  was  guarantee  in  the 
good  patron's  sense  of  benefits  conferred.  Moreover, 
Brother  Copas  was  not  desirable  as  an  amanuensis. 
.  .  .  None  the  less,  poor  men  with  long  families 
will  start  at  the  shadow  of  a  fear;  and  Mr.  Simeon 
started. 

"Master,"  he  said  humbly,  choosing  the  title  by 
which  his  patron  liked  to  be  addressed,  "I  think 
Greek  accents  must  come  by  gift  of  the  Lord." 

"Indeed?" 

The  Master  glanced  up. 

"I  mean,  sir" — Mr.  Simeon  extended  a  trembling 
hand  and  rested  his  fingers  on  the  edge  of  the  wri- 
3 


BROTHER  COPAS 

ting-table  for  support — "  that  one  man  is  born  with  a 
feeling  for  them,  so  to  speak;  while  another,  though 
you  may  teach  and  teach  him ' 

"  In  other  words,"  said  the  Master,  "  they  come  by 
breeding.  It  is  very  likely." 

He  resumed  his  reading; 

"  ' — and  yet  possessing  all  things.  We  may  fancy 
St.  Paul's  actual  words  present  in  the  mind  of  our 
Second  Founder,  the  Cardinal  Beauchamp,  as  their 
spirit  assuredly  moved  him,  when  he  named  our  be- 
loved house  the  College  of  Noble  Poverty.  His  prede- 
cessor, Alberic  de  Blanchminster,  had  called  it  after 
Christ's  Poor;  and  the  one  title,  to  be  sure,  rests  implicit 
in  the  other;  for  the  condescension  wherewith  Christ 
made  choice  of  His  associates  on  earth  has  for  ever  dig- 
nified Poverty  in  the  eyes  of  His  true  followers.' 

"And  you  have  spelt  'his*  with  a  capital  *H' — 
when  you  know  my  dislike  of  that  practice!" 

Poor  Mr.  Simeon  was  certainly  not  in  luck  to-day. 
The  truth  is  that,  frightened  by  the  prospect  of  yet 
another  addition  to  his  family  (this  would  be  his 
seventh  child),  he  had  hired  out  his  needy  pen  to  one 
of  the  Canons  Residentiary  of  Merchester,  who  in- 
sisted on  using  capitals  upon  all  parts  of  speech  re- 
ferring, however  remotely,  to  either  of  the  Divine  Per- 
sons. The  Master,  who  despised  Canon  Tarbolt  for 
a  vulgar  pulpiteer,  and  barely  nodded  to  him  in  the 
street,  was  not  likely  to  get  wind  of  this  mercenage; 
4 


THE  MASTER  OF  ST.  HOSPITAL 

but  if  ever  he  did,  there  would  be  trouble.  As  it  was, 
the  serving  of  two  masters  afflicted  Mr.  Simeon's  con- 
science while  it  distracted  his  pen. 

"I  will  make  another  fair  copy,"  he  suggested. 

"  I  fear  you  must.  Would  you  mind  drawing  back 
that  curtain  ?  My  eyes  are  troublesome  this  afternoon. 
Thank  you." 

"  '  Nevertheless  it  was  well  done  of  the  great  church- 
man to  declare  his  belief  that  the  poor,  as  poor,  are  not 
only  blessed — as  Our  Lord  expressly  says — but  noble, 
as  Our  Lord  implicitly  taught.  Nay,  the  suggestion 
is  not  perhaps  far-fetched  that  as  Cardinal  Beauchamp 
had  great  possessions,  he  took  this  occasion  to  testify 
how  in  his  heart  he  slighted  them.  Or  again — for  his- 
tory  seems  to  prove  that  he  was  not  an  entirely  scrupu- 
lous man,  nor  entirely  untainted  by  self-seeking — that 
his  tribute  to  Noble  Poverty  may  have  been  the  asser- 
tion, by  a  spirit  netted  among  the  briars  of  this  world's 
policy,  that  at  least  it  saw  and  suspired  after  the  way  to 
Heaven.  Video  meliora,  proboque — 

"O  limed  soul,  that  struggling  to  be  free 
Art  more  engaged!" 

"  '  But  he  is  with  God:  and  while  we  conjecture,  God 
knows. 

1  'Lest,  however,  you  should  doubt  that  the  finer 
spirit*  of  this  world  have  found  Poverty  not  merely  en- 
durable but  essentially  noble,  let  me  recall  to  you  an 
5 


BROTHER  COPAS 

anecdote  of  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi.  It  is  related  that, 
travelling  towards  France  with  a  companion,  Brother 
Masseo,  he  one  day  entered  a  town  wherethrough  they 
both  begged  their  way,  as  their  custom  was,  taking 
separate  streets.  Meeting  again  on  the  other  side  of 
the  town,  they  spread  out  their  alms  on  a  broad  stone 
by  the  wayside,  whereby  a  fair  fountain  ran;  and  Fran- 
cis rejoiced  that  Brother  Masseo's  orts  and  scraps  of 
bread  were  larger  than  his  own,  saying,  "  Brother  Mas- 
seo, we  are  not  worthy  of  such  treasure."  "  But  how," 
asked  Brother  Masseo,  "  can  one  speak  of  treasure  when 
there  is  such  lack  of  all  things  needful f  Here  have  we 
neither  cloth,  nor  knife,  nor  plate,  nor  porringer,  nor 
house,  nor  table,  nor  manservant,  nor  maidservant." 
Answered  Francis,  "  This  and  none  else  it  is  that  I 
account  wide  treasure;  which  containeth  nothing  pre- 
pared by  human  hands,  but  all  we  have  is  of  God's  own 
providence — as  this  bread  we  have  begged,  set  out  on  a 
table  of  stone  so  fine,  beside  a  fountain  so  clear.  Where- 
fore," said  he,  "let  us  kneel  together  and  pray  God  to 
increase  our  love  of  this  holy  Poverty,  which  is  so  noble 
that  thereunto  God  himself  became  a  servitor.'  " 

The  sun,  slanting  in  past  the  Banksian  roses, 
touched  the  edge  of  a  giant  amethyst  which  the  Mas- 
ter wore,  by  inheritance  of  office,  on  his  forefinger; 
and,  because  his  hand  trembled  a  little  with  age,  the 
gem  set  the  reflected  ray  dancing  in  a  small  pool  of 
light,  oval-shaped  and  wine-coloured,  on  the  white 
6 


THE  MASTER  OF  ST.  HOSPITAL 

margin  of  the  sermon.  He  stared  at  it  for  a  moment, 
tracing  it  mistakenly  to  a  glass  of  Rh6ne  wine — a 
Chdteau  Neuf  du  Pape  of  a  date  before  the  phylloxera 
— that  stood  neglected  on  the  writing-table.  (By  his 
doctor's  orders  he  took  a  glass  of  old  wine  and  a 
biscuit  every  afternoon  at  this  hour  as  a  gentle  di- 
gestive.) 

Thus  reminded,  he  reached  out  a  hand  and  raised 
the  wine  to  his  lips,  nodding  as  he  sipped. 

"  In  Common  Room,  Simeon,  we  used  to  say  that  no 
man  was  really  educated  who  preferred  Burgundy  to 
claret,  but  that  on  the  lower  Rh6ne  all  tastes  met 
in  one  ecstasy.  .  .  .  I  'd  like  to  have  your  opinion  on 
this,  now;  that  is,  if  you  will  find  the  decanter  and  a 
glass  in  the  cupboard  yonder — and  if  you  have  no  con- 
scientious objection." 

Mr.  Simeon  murmured,  amid  his  thanks,  that  he 
had  no  objection. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  ...  Between  ourselves, 
there  is  always  something  lacking  in  an  abstainer — 
as  in  a  man  who  has  never  learnt  Greek.  It  is  diffi- 
cult with  both  to  say  what  the  lack  precisely  is;  but 
with  both  it  includes  an  absolute  insensibility  to  the 
shortcoming." 

Mr.  Simeon  could  not  help  wondering  if  this  applied 
to  poor  men  who  abstained  of  necessity.  He  thought 
not;  being,  for  his  part,  conscious  of  a  number  of 
shortcomings. 

7 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  Spirits,"  went  on  the  Master,  wheeling  half-about 
in  his  revolving  chair  and  crossing  one  shapely  gait- 
ered  leg  over  another,  "  Spirits — and  especially  whisky 
— eat  out  the  health  of  a  man  and  leave  him  a  sod- 
den pulp.  Beer  is  honest,  but  brutalising.  Wine — 
certainly  any  good  wine  that  can  trace  its  origin  back 
beyond  the  Reformation — is  one  with  all  good  lit- 
erature, and  indeed  with  civilisation.  Antiquam 
exquirite  matrem:  all  three  come  from  the  Mediterra- 
nean basin  or  from  around  it,  and  it  is  only  the  ill- 
born  who  contemn  descent." 

"Brother  Copas —  '  began  Mr.  Simeon,  and 
came  to  a  halt. 

He  lived  sparely;  he  had  fasted  for  many  hours; 
and  standing  there  he  could  feel  the  generous  liquor 
coursing  through  him — nay  could  almost  have  re- 
ported its  progress  from  ganglion  to  ganglion.  He 
blessed  it,  and  at  the  same  moment  breathed  a  prayer 
that  it  might  not  affect  his  head. 

"Brother  Copas ?" 

Mr.  Simeon  wished  now  that  he  had  not  begun  his 
sentence.  The  invigorating  Chateau  Neuf  du  Pape 
seemed  to  overtake  and  chase  away  all  uncharitable 
thoughts.  But  it  was  too  late. 

"  Brother  Copas — you  were  saying ?  " 

"  I  ought  not  to  repeat  it,  sir.  But  I  heard  Brother 
Copas  say  the  other  day  that  the  teetotallers  were  in 
a  hopeless  case;  being  mostly  religious  men,  and  yet 
8 


THE  MASTER  OF  ST.   HOSPITAL 

having  to  explain  in  the  last  instance  why  Our  Lord, 
in  Cana  of  Galilee,  did  not  turn  the  water  into  ginger- 
pop." 

The  Master  frowned  and  stroked  his  gaiters. 

"Brother  Copas's  tongue  is  too  incisive.  Some- 
thing must  be  forgiven  to  one  who,  having  started  as 
a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  finds  himself  toward 
the  close  of  his  days  dependent  on  the  bread  of 
charity." 

It  was  benignly  spoken;  and  to  Mr.  Simeon,  who 
questioned  nothing  his  patron  said  or  did,  no  shade 
of  misgiving  occurred  that,  taken  down  in  writing,  it 
might  annotate  somewhat  oddly  the  sermon  on  the 
table.  It  was  spoken  with  insight  too,  for  had  not 
his  own  poverty,  or  the  fear  of  it,  sharpened  Mr. 
Simeon's  tongue  just  now  and  prompted  him  to  quote 
Brother  Copas  detrimentally?  The  little  man  did 
not  shape  this  accusation  clearly  against  himself,  for 
he  had  a  rambling  head;  but  he  had  also  a  sound 
heart,  and  it  was  uneasy. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  told  it,  sir.  ...  I  ask  you 
to  believe  that  I  have  no  ill-will  against  Brother 
Copas." 

The  Master  had  arisen,  and  stood  gazing  out  of  the 
window  immersed  in  his  own  thoughts. 

"Eh?     I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  he  absently. 

"  I — I  feared,  sir,  you  might  think  I  said  it  to  his 
prejudice." 

9 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Prejudice?"  the  Master  repeated,  still  with  his 
back  turned,  and  still  scarcely  seeming  to  hear. 
"But  why  in  the  world?  .  .  .  Ah,  there  he  goes! 
— and  Brother  Bonaday  with  him.  They  are  off  to 
the  river,  for  Brother  Copas  carries  his  rod.  What 
a  strange  fascination  has  that  dry-fly  fishing!  And 
I  can  remember  old  anglers  discussing  it  as  a  craze, 
a  lunacy." 

He  gazed  out,  still  in  a  brown  study.  The  room 
was  silent  save  for  the  ticking  of  a  Louis  Seize 
clock  on  the  chimney-piece;  and  Mr.  Simeon, 
standing  attentive,  let  his  eyes  travel  around  upon 
the  glass-fronted  bookcases,  filled  with  sober  riches 
in  vellum  and  gilt  leather,  on  the  rare  prints  in  black 
frames,  the  statuette  of  Diane  Chasseresse,  the  bust  of 
Antinoiis,  the  portfolios  containing  other  prints,  the 
Persian  carpets  scattered  about  the  dark  bees'-waxed 
floor,  the  Sheraton  table  with  its  bowl  of  odorous 
peonies. 

"Eh?  I  beg  your  pardon —  "  said  the  Master 
again  after  three  minutes  or  so,  facing  around  with 
a  smile  of  apology.  "My  wits  were  wool-gathering, 
over  the  sermon — that  little  peroration  of  mine  does 
not  please  me  somehow —  I  will  take  a  stroll  to 
the  home-park  and  back,  and  think  it  over.  .  .  . 
Thank  you,  yes,  you  may  gather  up  the  papers.  We 
will  do  no  more  work  this  afternoon." 

"And  I  will  write  out  another  fair  copy,  sir." 
10 


THE  MASTER  OF  ST.   HOSPITAL 

"Yes,  certainly;  that  is  to  say,  of  all  but  the  last 
page.  We  will  take  the  last  page  to-morrow." 

For  a  moment,  warmed  by  the  wine  and  by  the 
Master's  cordiality  of  manner,  Mr.  Simeon  felt  a  wild 
impulse  to  make  a  clean  breast,  confess  his  trafficking 
with  Canon  Tarbolt  and  beg  to  be  forgiven.  But  his 
courage  failed  him.  He  gathered  up  his  papers, 
bowed  and  made  his  escape. 


11 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

IF  a  foreigner  would  apprehend  (he  can  never  com- 
prehend) this  England  of  ours,  with  her  dear  and 
ancient  graces,  and  her  foibles  as  ancient  and  hardly 
less  dear;  her  law-abidingness,  her  staid,  God-fearing 
citizenship;  her  parochialism  whereby  (to  use  a  Greek 
idiom)  she  perpetually  escapes  her  own  notice  being 
empress  of  the  world;  her  inveterate  snobbery,  her 
incurable  habit  of  mistaking  symbols  and  words  for 
realities;  above  all,  her  spacious  and  beautiful  sense 
of  time  as  builder,  healer  and  only  perfecter  of 
worldly  things;  let  him  go  visit  the  Cathedral  City, 
sometime  the  Royal  City,  of  Merchester.  He  will 
find  it  all  there,  enclosed  and  casketed — "a  box  where 
sweets  compacted  lie." 

Let  him  arrive  on  a  Saturday  night  and  awake 
next  morning  to  the  note  of  the  Cathedral  bell,  and 
hear  the  bugles  answering  from  the  barracks  up 
the  hill  beyond  the  mediaeval  gateway.  As  he  sits 
down  to  breakfast  the  bugles  will  start  sounding 
nigher,  with  music  absurd  and  barbarous,  but 
12 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

stirring,  as  the  riflemen  come  marching  down  the 
High  Street  to  Divine  Service.  In  the  Minster  to 
which  they  wend,  their  disused  regimental  colours 
droop  along  the  aisles;  tattered,  a  hundred  years 
since,  in  Spanish  battlefields,  and  by  age  worn  almost 
to  gauze — "strainers,"  says  Brother  Copas,  "that 
in  their  time  have  clarified  much  turbid  blood." 
But  these  are  guerdons  of  yesterday  in  comparison 
with  other  relics  the  Minster  guards.  There  is  royal 
dust  among  them — Saxon  and  Dane  and  Norman — 
housed  in  painted  chests  above  the  choir  stalls. 
"Quare  fremuerunt  gentesf"  intone  the  choristers' 
voices  below,  Mr.  Simeon's  weak  but  accurate  tenor 
among  them.  "  The  kings  of  the  earth  stand  up,  and 
the  rulers  take  counsel  together  ..."  The  riflemen 
march  down  to  listen.  As  they  go  by  ta-ra-ing,  the 
douce  citizens  of  Merchester  and  their  wives  and 
daughters  admire  from  the  windows  discreetly;  but 
will  attend  their  Divine  Service  later.  This,  again, 
is  England. 

Sundays  and  weekdays  at  intervals  the  Cathedral 
organ  throbs  across  the  Close,  gently  shaking  the 
windows  of  the  Deanery  and  the  canons'  houses,  and 
interrupting  the  chatter  of  sparrows  in  their  ivy. 
Twice  or  thrice  annually  a  less  levitical  noise  invades, 
when  our  State  visits  its  Church;  in  other  words, 
when  with  trumpeters  and  javelin-men  the  High 
Sheriff  escorts  His  Majesty's  Judges  to  hear  the 
13 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Assize  Sermon.  On  these  occasions  the  head  boy 
of  the  great  School,  which  lies  a  little  to  the  south 
of  the  Cathedral,  by  custom  presents  a  paper  to  the 
learned  judge,  suing  for  a  school  holiday;  and  his 
lordship,  brushing  up  his  Latinity,  makes  a  point  of 
acceding  in  the  best  hexameters  he  can  contrive.  At 
his  time  of  life  it  comes  easier  to  try  prisoners;  and 
if  he  lie  awake,  he  is  haunted  less  by  his  day  in  Court 
than  by  the  fear  of  a  false  quantity. 

The  School — with  its  fourteenth-century  quad- 
rangles, fenced  citywards  behind  a  blank  brewhouse- 
wall  (as  though  its  founder's  first  precaution  had  been 
to  protect  learning  from  seige),  and  its  precincts  open- 
ing rearwards  upon  green  playing-fields  and  river- 
meads — is  like  few  schools  in  England,  and  none 
in  any  other  country;  and  is  proud  of  its  sin- 
gularity. It,  too,  has  its  stream  of  life,  and  on  the 
whole  a  very  gracious  one,  with  its  young,  careless 
voices  and  high  spirits.  It  lies,  as  I  say,  south  of 
the  Close;  beyond  the  northward  fringe  of  which 
you  penetrate  under  archway  or  by  narrow  entry  to 
the  High  Street,  where  another  and  different  tide 
comes  and  goes,  with  mild  hubbub  of  carts,  carriages, 
motors — ladies  shopping,  magistrates  and  county 
councillors  bent  on  busimess  of  the  shire,  farmers, 
traders,  marketers.  .  .  .  This  traffic,  too,  is  all  very 
English  and  ruddy  and  orderly. 

Through  it  all,  picturesque  and  respected,  pass  and 
14 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

repass  the  bedesmen  of  St.  Hospital:  the  Blanch- 
minster  Brethren  in  black  gowns  with  a  silver  cross 
worn  at  the  breast,  the  Beauchamp  Brethren  in  gowns 
of  claret  colour  with  a  silver  rose.  The  terms  of  the 
twin  bequests  are  not  quite  the  same.  To  be  a 
Collegian  of  Christ's  Poor  it  is  enough  that  you  have 
attained  the  age  of  sixty-five,  so  reduced  in  strength 
as  to  be  incapable  of  work;  whereas  you  can  become 
a  Collegian  of  Noble  Poverty  at  sixty,  but  with  the 
proviso  that  misfortune  has  reduced  you  from  in- 
dependence (that  is  to  say,  from  a  moderate  estate). 
The  Beauchamp  Brethren,  who  are  the  fewer,  incline 
to  give  themselves  airs  over  the  Blanchminsters  on 
the  strength  of  this  distinction:  like  Dogberry,  in 
their  time  they  have  "had  losses."  But  Merchester 
takes,  perhaps,  an  equal  pride  in  the  pensioners  of 
both  orders. 

Merchester  takes  an  even  fonder  pride  in  St. 
Hospital  itself — that  compact  and  exquisite  group 
of  buildings,  for  the  most  part  Norman,  set  in  the 
water-meadows  among  the  ambient  streams  of  Mere. 
It  lies  a  mile  or  so  southward  of  the  town,  and 
some  distance  below  the  School,  where  the  valley 
widens  between  the  chalk-hills  and,  inland  yet,  you 
feel  a  premonition  that  the  sea  is  not  far  away.  All 
visitors  to  Merchester  are  directed  towards  St.  Hos- 
pital and  they  dote  over  it — the  American  visi- 
tors especially;  because  nowhere  in  England  can 
15 


BROTHER  COPAS 

one  find  the  Middle  Ages  more  compendiously  sum- 
marised or  more  charmingly  illustrated.  Almost  it 
might  be  a  toy  model  of  those  times,  with  some  of 
their  quaintest  customs  kept  going  in  smooth  work- 
ing order.  But  it  is  better.  It  is  the  real  thing,  gen- 
uinely surviving.  No  visitor  ever  finds  disappoint- 
ment in  a  pilgrimage  to  St.  Hospital:  the  inmates 
take  care  of  that. 

The  trustees,  or  governing  body,  are  careful  too. 
A  few  years  ago,  finding  that  his  old  lodgings  in  the 
quadrangle  were  too  narrow  for  the  Master's  comfort, 
they  erected  a  fine  new  house  for  him,  just  without  the 
precincts.  But  though  separated  from  the  Hospital 
by  a  roadway,  this  new  house  comes  into  the  picture 
from  many  points  of  view,  and  therefore  not  only 
did  the  architect  receive  instructions  to  harmonise  it 
with  the  ancient  buildings,  but  where  he  left  off  the 
trustees  succeeded,  planting  wistarias,  tall  roses  and 
selected  ivies  to  run  up  the  coigns  and  mullions. 
Nay,  it  is  told  that  to  encourage  the  growth  of  moss 
they  washed  over  a  portion  of  the  walls  (the  servants' 
quarters)  with  a  weak  solution  of  farmyard  manure. 
These  conscientious  pains  have  their  reward,  for  to- 
day, at  a  little  distance,  the  Master's  house  appears 
no  less  ancient  than  the  rest  of  the  mediceval  pile 
with  which  it  composes  so  admirably. 

With  the  Master  himself  we  have  made  acquaint- 
ance. In  the  words  of  an  American  magazine,  "  the 
16 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

principal  of  this  old-time  foundation,  Master  E.  J. 
Wriothesley  (pronounced  '  Wrottesley')  Blanchmin- 
ster,  may  be  allowed  to  fill  the  bill.  He  is  founder's 
kin,  and  just  sweet." 

The  Master  stepped  forth  from  his  rose-garlanded 
porch,  crossed  the  road,  and  catered  the  modest 
archway  which  opens  on  the  first,  or  outer,  court.  He 
walked  habitually  at  a  short  trot,  with  his  head  and 
shoulders  thrust  a  little  forward  and  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him.  He  never  used  a  walking-stick. 

The  outer  court  of  St.  Hospital  is  plain  and  un- 
pretending, with  a  brewhouse  on  one  hand  and 
on  the  other  the  large  kitchen  with  its  offices.  Be- 
tween these  the  good  Master  passed,  and  came  to  a 
second  and  handsomer  gate,  with  a  tower  above  it, 
and  three  canopied  niches  in  the  face  of  the  tower, 
and  in  one  of  the  niches — the  others  are  empty — a 
kneeling  figure  of  the  great  Cardinal  himself.  The 
passage-way  through  the  tower  is  vaulted  and  richly 
groined,  and  in  a  little  chamber  beside  it  dwells  the 
porter,  a  part  of  whose  duty  it  is  to  distribute  the 
Wayfarers'  Dole — a  horn  of  beer  and  a  manchet  of 
bread — to  all  who  choose  to  ask  for  it.  The  Master 
halted  a  moment  to  give  the  porter  good  evening. 

"And  how  many  to-day,  Brother  Manby?" 

"Thirty-three,  Master,  including  a  party  of  twelve 
that  came  in  motor-cars.  I  was  jealous  the  cast 
wouldn't  go  round,  for  they  all  insisted  on  having  the 
17 


BROTHER  COPAS 

dole,  and  a  full  slice,  too — the  gentlemen  declaring 
they  were  hungry  after  their  drive.  But,"  added 
Brother  Manby,  with  a  glance  at  a  card  affixed  by  the 
archway  and  announcing  that  tickets  to  view  the  hos- 
pital could  be  procured  at  sixpence  a  head,  "they 
were  most  appreciative,  I  must  say." 

The  master  smiled,  nodded,  and  passed  on.  He 
gathered  that  someone  had  profited  by  something 
over  and  above  the  twelve  sixpences. 

But  how  gracious,  how  serenely  beautiful,  how 
eloquent  of  peace  and  benediction,  the  scene  that 
met  him  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  great 
quadrangle!  Some  thousands  of  times  his  eyes  had 
rested  on  it,  yet  how  could  it  ever  stale  ? 

"In  the  evening  there  shall  be  light." — The  sun, 
declining  in  a  cloudless  west  behind  the  roof-ridge 
and  tall  chimneys  of  the  Brethren's  houses,  cast  a 
shadow  even  to  the  sundial  that  stood  for  centre  of 
the  wide  grass-plot.  All  else  was  softest  gold — 
gold  veiling  the  sky  itself  in  a  powdery  haze;  gold 
spread  full  along  the  front  of  the '  Nunnery,'  or  row  of 
upper  chambers  on  the  eastern  line  of  the  quadran- 
gle, where  the  three  nurses  of  St.  Hospital  have 
their  lodgings;  shafts  of  gold  penetrating  the  shaded 
ambulatory  below;  gold  edging  the  western  coigns 
of  the  Norman  chapel;  gold  rayed  and  slanting  be- 
tween boughs  in  the  park  beyond  the  railings  to  the 
south.  Only  the  western  side  of  the  quadrangle  lay 
18 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

in  shadow,  and  in  the  shadow,  in  twos  and  threes, 
beside  their  doors  and  tiny  flower-plots  (their  pride), 
sat  the  Brethren,  with  no  anxieties,  with  no  care  but 
to  watch  the  closing  tranquil  hour:  some  with  their 
aged  wives  (for  the  Hospital,  as  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land with  her  bishops,  allows  a  Brother  to  have  one 
wife,  but  ignores  her  existence),  some  in  monastic 
groups,  withdrawn  from  hearing  of  women's  gossip. 

The  Master  chose  the  path  that,  circumventing  the 
grass-plot,  led  him  past  these  happy-looking  groups 
and  couples.  To  be  sure,  it  was  not  his  nearest  way 
to  the  home-park,  where  he  intended  to  think  out  his 
peroration;  but  he  had  plenty  of  time,  and  moreover 
he  delighted  to  exchange  courtesies  with  his  charges. 
For  each  he  had  a  greeting — 

— "Fine  weather,  fine  weather,  Brother  Dasent! 
Ah,  this  is  the  time  to  get  rid  of  the  rheumatics! 
Eh,  Mrs.  Dasent?  I  haven't  seen  him  looking  so 
hale  for  months  past. 

— "A  beautiful  evening,  Brother  Clerihew — yes, 
beautiful  indeed.  .  .  .  You  notice  how  the  swal- 
lows are  flying,  both  high  and  low,  Brother  Wool- 
combe?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  we  are  in  for  a  spell 
of  it. 

— "Ah,  good  evening,  Mrs.  Royle.  What  wonder- 
ful ten-week  stocks!  I  declare  I  cannot  grow  the 
like  of  them  in  my  garden.  And  what  a  perfume! 
But  it  warns  me  that  the  dew  is  beginning  to  fall, 
19 


BROTHER  COPAS 

and  Brother  Royle  ought  not  to  be  sitting  out  late. 
We  must  run  no  risks,  Nurse,  after  his  illness?" 

The  Master  appealed  to  a  comfortable-looking 
woman  who,  at  his  approach,  had  been  engaged  in 
earnest  talk  with  Mrs.  Royle — talk  to  which  old 
Brother  Royle  appeared  to  listen  placidly,  seated 
in  his  chair. 

— And  so  on.  He  had  a  kindly  word  for  all,  and 
all  answered  his  salutations  respectfully;  the  women 
bobbing  curtseys,  the  old  men  offering  to  rise  from 
their  chairs.  But  this  he  would  by  no  means  allow. 
His  presence  seemed  to  carry  with  it  a  fragrance  of 
his  own,  as  real  as  that  of  the  mignonette  and  roses 
and  sweet-williams  amid  which  he  left  them  em- 
bowered. 

When  he  had  passed  out  of  earshot,  Brother 
Clerihew  turned  to  Brother  Woolcombe  and  said — 

"The  silly  old is  beginning  to  show  his  age, 

seemin'  to  me." 

"  Oughtn  't  to, "  answered  Brother  Woolcombe.  "  If 
ever  a  man  had  a  soft  job,  it 's  him." 

"Well,  I  reckon  we  don't  want  to  lose  him  yet, 
anyhow — 'specially  if  Colt  is  to  step  into  his  old 
shoes." 

Brother  Clerihew's  reference  was  to  the  Reverend 
Rufus  Colt,  Chaplain  of  St.  Hospital. 

"They  never  would!"  opined  Brother  Woolcombe, 
20 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

meaning  by  "they"  the  governing  body  of  Trus- 
tees. 

"Oh,  you  never  know — with  a  man  on  the  make, 
like  Colt.  Push  carries  everything  in  these  times." 

"Colt's  a  hustler,"  Brother  Woolcombe  conceded. 
"But,  damn  it  all,  they  might  give  us  a  gentleman!" 

"There's  not  enough  to  go  round,  nowadays," 
grunted  Brother  Clerihew,  who  had  been  a  butler, 
and  knew.  "  Master  Blanchminster  's  the  real  thing, 
of  course.  ..."  He  gazed  after  the  retreating  figure 
of  the  Master.  "  Seemed  gay  as  a  gold-finch,  he  did. 
D'ye  reckon  Colt  has  told  him  about  Warboise?" 

"I  wonder.     Where  is  Warboise,  by  the  way?" 

"Down  by  the  river,  taking  a  walk  to  cool  his 
head.  Ibbetson's  wife  gave  him  a  dressing-down 
at  tea-time  for  dragging  Ibbetson  into  the  row. 
Threatened  to  have  her  nails  in  his  beard — I  heard 
her.  That  woman  's  a  terror.  .  .  .  All  the  same, 
one  can't  help  sympathising  with  her.  'You  can 
stick  to  your  stinking  Protestantism/  she  told  him, 
'  if  it  amuses  you  to  fight  the  Chaplain.  You  're  a 
widower,  with  nobody  dependent.  But  don't  you 
teach  my  husband  to  quarrel  with  his  vittles.'" 

"All  the  same,  when  a  man  has  convictions " 

"Convictions    are    well    enough    when    you    can 

afford  'em,"  Brother  Clerihew  grunted  again.     "But 

up  against  Colt — what 's  the  use  ?     And  where  's  his 

backing?     Ibbetson,  with  a  wife  hanging  on  to  his 

21 


BROTHER  COPAS 

coat-tails;  and  old  Bonaday,  that  wouldn't  hurt  a 
fly;  and  Copas,  standing  off  and  sneering " 

"A  man  might  have  all  the  pains  of  Golgotha 
upon  him  before  ever  you  turned  a  hair,"  grum- 
bled Brother  Dasent,  a  few  yards  away. 

He  writhed  in  his  chair,  for  the  rheumatism  was 
really  troublesome;  but  he  over-acted  his  suffering 
somewhat,  having  learnt  in  forty-five  years  of  married 
life  that  his  spouse  was  not  over-ready  with  sympathy. 

"T'cht!"  answered  she.  "I  ought  to  know  what 
they  're  like  by  this  time,  and  I  wonder,  for  my  part, 
you  don't  try  to  get  accustomed  to  'em.  Dying  one 
can  understand:  but  to  be  worrited  with  a  man's  ail- 
ments, noon  and  night,  it  gets  on  the  nerves.  ..." 

"You're  sure?"  resumed  Mrs.  Royle  eagerly,  but 
sinking  her  voice — for  she  could  hardly  wait  until  the 
Master  had  passed  out  of  earshot. 

"Did  you  ever  know  me  spread  tales?"  asked  the 
comfortable-looking  Nurse.  "Only,  mind  you,  I 
mentioned  it  in  the  strictest  secrecy.  This  is  such 
a  scandalous  hole,  one  can't  be  too  careful.  .  .  . 
But  down  by  the  river  they  were,  consorting  and 
God  knows  what  else." 

"At  his  age,  too!     Disgusting,  I  call  it." 

"Oh,  she  '.v  not  particular!  My  comfort  is  I 
always  suspected  that  woman  from  the  first  moment 
22 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

I  set  eyes  on  her.  Instinct,  I  suppose.  'Well,  my 
lady, '  says  I,  '  if  you  're  any  better  than  you  should 
be,  then  I  've  lived  all  these  years  for  nothing.' " 

"And  him — that  looked  such  a  broken-down  old 
innocent!" 

"They  get  taken  that  way  sometimes." 

Nurse  Turner  sank  her  voice  and  said  something 
salacious,  which  caused  Mrs.  Royle  to  draw  a  long 
breath  and  exclaim  that  she  could  never  have  cred- 
ited such  things — not  in  a  Christian  land.  Her  old 
husband,  too,  overheard  it,  and  took  snuff  with  a 
senile  chuckle. 

"Gad,  that's  spicy!"  he  crooned. 

The  Master,  at  the  gateway  leading  to  the  home- 
park,  turned  for  a  look  back  on  the  quadrangle 
and  the  seated  figures.  Yes,  they  made  an  exquisite 
picture.  Here — 

"Here  where  the  world  is  quiet" — 
here,  indeed,  his  ancestor  had  built  a  haven  of  rest. 

"From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  lives  for  ever; 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 
That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea." 
23 


BROTHER  COPAS 

As  the  lines  floated  across  his  memory,  the  Master 
had  a  mind  to  employ  them  in  his  peroration  (giving 
them  a  Christian  trend,  of  course)  in  place  of  the 
sonnet  he  had  meant  to  quote.  This  would  involve 
reconstructing  a  longish  paragraph;  but  they  had 
touched  his  mood,  and  he  spent  some  time  pacing 
to  and  fro  under  the  trees  before  his  taste  rejected 
them  as  facile  and  even  cheap  in  comparison  with 
Wordsworth's — 

"Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day, 

And  minds  not  stinted  or  untill'd  are  given, 
— Sound  healthy  children  of  the  God  of  heaven — 
Are  cheerful  as  the  rising  sun  in  May." 

"Yes,  yes,"  murmured  the  Master,  "Wordsworth's 
is  the  better.  But  what  a  gift,  to  be  able  to  express 
a  thought  just  so — with  that  freshness,  that  noble 
simplicity!  And  even  with  Wordsworth  it  was  fugi 
tive,  lost  after  four  or  five  marvellous  years:  no 
one  not  a  Greek  has  ever  possessed  it  in  perma- 
nence ..." 

Here  he  paused  at  the  sound  of  a  footfall  on  the 
turf  close  behind  him,  and  turned  about  with  a 
slight  frown;  which  readily  yielded,  however,  and 
became  a  smile  of  courtesy. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Colt!    Good  evening!" 

"Good  evening,  Master." 

Mr.  Colt  came  up  deferentially,  yet  firmly,  much 
24 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

as  a  nurse  in  a  good  family  might  collect  a  straying 
infant.  He  was  a  tall,  noticeably  well-grown  man, 
a  trifle  above  thirty,  clean  shaven,  with  a  square 
and  obstinate  chin.  He  wore  no  hat  and  his  close, 
black  hair  showed  a  straight  middle  parting  above 
his  low  and  somewhat  protuberant  forehead.  The 
parting  widened  at  the  occiput  to  a  well-kept  tonsure. 
At  the  back  the  head  wanted  balance;  and  this 
lent  a  suggestion  of  brutality — of  "thrust" — to  his 
abounding  appearance  of  strength.  He  walked  in 
his  priestly  black  with  the  gait  and  carriage  proper 
to  a  heavy  dragoon. 

"A  fine  evening,  indeed.     Are  you  disengaged?" 

"Certainly,  certainly" — in  comparison  with  Mr. 
Colt's  grave  voice  the  Master's  was  almost  a  chirrup — 
"whether  for  business  or  for  the  pleasure  of  a  talk. 
Nothing  wrong,  I  hope?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  Chaplain  did  not  answer. 
He  seemed  to  be  weighing  his  words.  At  length  he 
said — 

"I  should  have  reported  at  once,  but  have  been 
thinking  it  over.  At  Early  Celebration  this  morning 
Warboise  insulted  the  wafer." 

"Dear,  dear,  you  don't  say  so!" 

— "Took  it  from  me,  held  it  derisively  between 

finger  and  thumb,  and  muttered.     I  could  not  catch 

all  that  he  said,  but  I  distinctly  heard  the  words 

'biscuit'  and  'Antichrist.'    Indeed,  he  confesses  to 

25 


BROTHER  COPAS 

having  used  them.  His  demeanour  left  no  doubt 
that  he  was  insolent  of  set  purpose.  ...  I  should 
add  that  Ibbetson,  who  was  kneeling  next  to  him 
and  must  have  overheard,  walked  back  from  the 
altar-rail  straight  out  of  chapel;  but  his  wife  assures 
me  that  this  was  purely  a  coincidence,  and  due  to  a 
sudden  weaknesss  of  the  stomach." 

"You  have  spoken  to  Warboise?" 

"Yes,  and  he  is  defiant.  Says  that  bread  is  bread, 
and — when  I  pressed  him  for  a  definition — asked 
(insolently  again)  if  the  Trustees  had  authorised  our 
substituting  biscuit  for  bread  in  the  Wayfarer's  Dole. 
Advised  us  to  'try  it  on'  there,  and  look  out  for 
letters  in  the  Merchester  Observer.  He  even  threat- 
ened— if  you  '11  believe  me — to  write  to  the  Press 
himself.  In  short,  he  was  beyond  all  self-control." 

"I  was  afraid,"  murmured  the  Master,  flushing 
a  little  in  his  distress,  "you  would  not  introduce 
this — er — primitive  use — or,  I  should  say,  restore  it 
— without  trouble.  Brother  Warboise  has  strong 
Protestant  prejudices;  passionate,  even." 

"And  ignorant." 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course!     Still— 

"I  suggest  that,  living  as  he  does  on  the  Church's 
benefaction,  eating  the  bread  of  her  charity — 

The  Chaplain  paused,  casting  about  for  a  third 
phrase  to  express  Brother  WTarboise's  poor  dependence. 

The  Master  smiled  whimsically. 
26 


THE  COLLEGE  OF  NOBLE  POVERTY 

" '  The  bread'— that 's  just  it,  he  would  tell  you  .  .  . 
And  Alberic  de  Blanchminster,  moreover,  was  a  lay- 
man, not  even  in  any  of  the  minor  orders;  so  that, 
strictly  speaking " 

"  But  he  left  his  wealth  expressly  to  be  administered 
by  the  Church.  .  .  .  Will  you  forgive  me,  Master,  if 
I  repeat  very  respectfully  the  suggestion  I  made  at 
the  beginning?  If  you  could  see  your  way  to  be 
celebrant  at  the  early  office,  your  mere  presence 
would  silence  these  mutineers.  The  Brethren  respect 
your  authority  without  question,  and,  the  ice  once 
broken,  they  would  come  to  heel  as  one  man." 

The  Master  shook  his  head  tremulously,  in  too 
much  of  a  flurry  even  to  note  the  Chaplain's  derange- 
ment of  metaphors. 

You  cannot  guess  how  early  rising  upsets  me. 
Doctor  Ainsley,  indeed,  positively  forbids  it.  ... 
I  can  sympathise,  you  see,  with  Ibbetson  .  .  .  and, 
for  Brother  Warboise,  let  us  always  remember  that 
St.  Hospital  was  not  made,  and  cannot  be  altered, 
in  a  day — even  for  the  better.  Like  England,  it  has 
been  built  by  accretions,  by  traditions;  yes,  and  by 
traditions  that  apparently  conflict — by  that  of  Brother 
Ingman,  among  others.  ...  * 

*  Brother  Peter  Ingman,  a  poor  pensioner  of  St.  Hospital  in 
the  reign  of  Queen  Mary,  made  profession  of  the  reformed  faith, 
and  somehow,  in  spite  of  his  low  estate,  received  the  honour  of 
being  burnt  alive  at  the  same  stake  with  his  diocesan.  He  is 
mentioned  in  all  the  guide-books. 

27 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"We  who  love  St.  Hospital,"  continued  the  Mas- 
ter, still  tremulously,  "have,  I  doubt  not,  each  his 
different  sense  of  the  genius  loci.  Warboise  finds  it, 
we  '11  say,  in  the  person  of  Peter  Ingman,  Protestant 
and  martyr.  But  I  don't  defend  his  behaviour.  I 
will  send  for  him  to-morrow,  and  talk  to  him.  I  will 
talk  to  him  very  severely." 


CHAPTER  III 

BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

"WELL,"  said  Brother  Copas,  "since  the  fish  are 
not  rising,  let  us  talk.  Or  rather,  you  can  tell  me 
all  about  it  while  I  practise  casting.  ...  By  what 
boat  is  she  coming?" 

"By  the  Carnatic,  and  due  some  time  to-morrow. 
I  saw  it  in  the  newspaper." 

"Well  ? — "  prompted  Brother  Copas,  glancimg  back 
over  his  shoulder  as  Brother  Bonaday  came  to  a  halt. 

The  bent  little  man  seemed  to  have  lost  the  thread 
of  his  speech  as  he  stood  letting  his  gentle,  tired  eyes 
follow  the  flight  of  the  swallows  swooping  and  circling 
low  along  the  river  and  over  the  meadow-grasses. 

"Well? — "  prompted  Brother  Copas  again. 

"Nurse  Branscome  will  go  down  to  meet  her." 

"And  then?—" 

"I  am  hoping  the  Master  will  let  her  have  my 
spare  room,"  said  Brother  Bonaday  vaguely. 

Here  it  should  be  explained  that  when  the  Trustees 
erected  a  new  house  for  the  Master  his  old  lodgings 
in  the  quadrangle  had  been  carved  into  sets  of 
29 


BROTHER  COPAS 

chambers  for  half  a  dozen  additional  Brethren,  and 
that  one  of  these,  differing  only  from  the  rest  in  that 
it  contained  a  small  spare  room,  had  chanced  to  be 
allotted  to  Brother  Bonaday.  He  had  not  applied 
for  it,  and  it  had  grieved  him  to  find  his  promotion 
resented  by  certain  of  the  Brethren,  who  let  slip  few 
occasions  for  envy.  For  the  spare  room  had  been 
quite  useless  to  him  until  now.  Now  he  began  to 
think  it  might  be,  after  all,  a  special  gift  of  Provi- 
dence. 

"You  have  spoken  to  the  Master?"  asked  Brother 
Copas. 

"No:  that  is  to  say,  not  yet.'* 

"What  if  he  refuses?" 

"It  will  be  very  awkward.  I  shall  hardly  know 
what  to  do.  .  .  .  Find  her  some  lodging  in  the  towrn, 
perhaps;  there  seems  no  other  way." 

"  You  should  have  applied  to  the  Master  at  once. " 

Brother  Bonaday  considered  this,  while  his  eyes 
wandered. 

"But  why?"  he  asked.  "The  boat  had  sailed  be- 
fore the  letter  reached  me.  She  was  already  on  her 
way.  Yes  or  no,  it  could  make  no  difference." 

"It  makes  this  difference:  suppose  that  the  Master 
refuses,  you  have  lost  four  days  in  which  you  might 
have  found  her  a  suitable  lodging.  What 's  the  child's 
name,  by  the  by?" 

"Corona,  it  seems." 

30 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

"Seems?" 

"She  was  born  just  after  her  mother  left  me  and 
went  to  America,  having  a  little  money  of  her  own 
saved  out  of  our  troubles."  Again  Brother  Copas, 
in  the  act  of  making  a  cast,  glanced  back  over  his 
shoulder,  but  Brother  Bonaday's  eyes  were  on  the 
swallows.  "In  1902  it  was,  the  year  of  King  Ed- 
ward's coronation:  yes  that  will  be  why  my  wife 
chose  the  name.  .  .  .  I  suppose,  as  you  say, "  Brother 
Bonaday  went  on  after  a  pause,  "I  ought  to  have 
spoken  to  the  Master  at  once;  but  I  put  it  off,  the 
past  being  painful  to  me 

"Yet  you  told  Nurse  Branscome." 

"Someone — some  woman — had  to  be  told.  The 
child  must  be  met,  you  see." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  Well,  I  am  glad,  anyway,  that  you  told 
me  whilst  there  was  yet  a  chance  of  my  being  useful ; 
being,  as  you  may  or  may  not  have  observed,  in- 
clined to  jealousy  in  matters  of  friendship." 

This  time  Brother  Copas  kept  his  face  averted, 
and  made  a  fresh  cast  across  stream  with  more  than 
ordinary  care.  The  fly  dropped  close  under  the  far 
bank,  and  by  a  bare  six  inches  clear  of  a  formidable 
alder.  He  jerked  the  rod  backward,  well  pleased 
with  his  skill. 

"That  was  a  pretty  good  one,  eh?" 

But  clever  angling  was  thrown  away  upon  Brother 
Bonaday,  whom  preoccupation  with  trouble  had  long 
31 


BROTHER  COPAS 

ago  made  unobservant.  Brother  Copas  reeled  in  a 
few  yards  of  his  line. 

"  You  '11  bear  in  mind  that,  if  the  Master  should 
refuse  and  you  're  short  of  money  for  a  good  lodging, 
I  have  a  pound  or  two  laid  by.  We  must  do  what 
we  can  for  the  child;  coming,  as  she  will,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  world." 

"That  is  kind  of  you,  Copas,"  said  Brother  Bon- 
aday  slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  now  on  the  reel,  the 
whirring  click  of  which  drew  his  attention,  so  that 
he  seemed  to  address  his  speech  to  it.  "It  is  very 
kind,  and  I  thank  you.  But  I  hope  the  Master  will 
not  refuse:  though,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  there  is 
another  small  difficulty  which  makes  me  shy  of  asking 
him  a  favour." 

"Eh?    What  is  it?" 

Brother  Bonaday  twisted  his  thin  fingers  together. 

"I — I  had  promised,  before  I  got  this  letter,  to 
stand  by  Warboise.  I  feel  rather  strongly  on  these 
matters,  you  know — though,  of  course,  not  so 
strongly  as  he  does — and  I  promised  to  support  him. 
Which  makes  it  very  awkward,  you  see,  to  go  and 
ask  a  favour  of  the  Master  just  when  you  are  (so  to 
say)  defying  his  authority.  .  .  .  While  if  I  hide  it 
from  him  and,  he  grants  the  favour,  and  then  next 
day  or  the  day  after  I  declare  for  Warboise,  it  will 
look  like  treachery,  eh?" 

"Damnl"  said  Brother  Copas,  still  winding  in 
32 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

his  line  meditatively.  "There  is  no  such  casuist 
as  poverty.  And  only  this  morning  I  was  promising 
myself  much  disinterested  sport  in  the  quarrelling  of 
you  Christian  brethren.  .  .  .  But  isn't  that  Warboise 
coming  along  the  path?  .  .  .  Yes,  the  very  man! 
Well,  we  must  try  what 's  to  be  done." 

"But  I  have  given  him  my  word,  remember." 

Brother  Copas,  if  he  heard,  gave  no  sign  of  hearing. 
H*e  had  turned  to  hail  Brother  Warboise,  who  came 
along  the  river  path  with  eyes  fastened  on  the  ground, 
and  staff  viciously  prodding  in  time  with  his  steps. 

"Hullo,  Warboise!  Halt,  and  give  the  counter- 
sign!" 

Brother  Warboise  halted,  taken  unawares,  and  eyed 
the  two  doubtfully  from  under  his  bushy  grey  eye- 
brows. They  were  Beauchamp  both,  he  Blanch- 
minster.  He  wore  the  black  cloak  of  Blanchminster, 
with  the  silver  cross  patte  at  the  breast,  and  looked 
— so  Copas  murmured  to  himself — "like  Caiaphas  in 
a  Miracle  Play."  His  mouth  was  square  and  firm, 
his  grey  beard  straightly  cut.  He  had  been  a  stationer 
in  a  small  way,  and  had  come  to  grief  by  vending 
only  those  newspapers  of  which  he  could  approve 
the  religious  tendency. 

"The  countersign?"  he  echoed  slowly  and  doubt- 
fully. 

He  seldom  understood  Brother  Copas,  but  by  habit 
suspected  him  of  levity. 

33 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"To  be  sure,  among  three  good  Protestants! 
'Bloody  end  to  the  Pope!'  is  it  not?" 

"You  are  mocking  me,"  snarled  Brother  War- 
boise,  and  with  that  struck  the  point  of  his  staff 
passionately  upon  the  pathway.  "You  are  a  Gallic, 
and  always  will  be:  you  care  nothing  for  what  is 
heaven  and  earth  to  us  others.  But  you  have  no 
right  to  infect  Bonaday,  here,  with  your  poison. 
He  has  promised  me. "  Brother  Warboise  faced  upon 
Brother  Bonaday  sternly,  "You  promised  me,  you 
know  you  did." 

"To  be  sure  he  promised  you,"  put  in  Brother 
Copas.  "He  has  just  been  telling  me." 

"And  I  am  going  to  hold  him  to  it!  These  are 
not  times  for  falterers,  halters  between  two  opinions. 
If  England  is  to  be  saved  from  coming  a  second  time 
under  the  yoke  of  Papacy,  men  will  have  to  come 
out  in  their  true  colours.  He  that  is  not  for  us  is 
against  us." 

Brother  Copas  reeled  in  a  fathom  of  line  with  a 
contemplative,  judicial  air. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Warboise,  I  'm  inclined  to  agree 
with  you.  I  don't  pretend  to  share  your  Protestant 
fervour:  but  hang  it!  I  'm  an  Englishman  with  a 
sense  of  history,  and  that  is  what  no  single  one 
among  your  present-day  High  Anglicans  would 
appear  to  possess.  If  a  man  want  to  understand 
England  he  has  to  start  with  one  or  two  simple 
34 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

propositions,  of  which  the  first — or  about  the  first — 
is  that  England  once  had  a  Reformation,  and  is  not 
going  to  forget  it.  But  that  is  just  what  these  fellows 
would  make-believe  to  ignore.  A  fool  like  Colt — 
for  at  bottom,  between  ourselves,  Colt  is  a  fool — 
says,  'Reformation?  There  was  no  such  thing: 
we  don't  acknowledge  it.'  As  the  American  said  of 
some  divine  who  didn't  believe  in  eternal  punish- 
ment, 'By  gosh,  he'd  better  not!'" 

"But  England  is  forgetting  it!"  insisted  Brother 
Warboise.  "Look  at  the  streams  of  Papist  monks 
she  has  allowed  to  pour  in  ever  since  France  took 
a  strong  line  with  her  monastic  orders.  Look  at 
those  fellows — College  of  St.  John  Lateran,  as  they 
call  themselves — who  came  across  and  up  from  South- 
ampton last  year,  and  took  lodgings  only  at  the  far 
end  of  this  village.  In  the  inside  of  six  months  they 
had  made  friends  with  everybody." 

"They  employ  local  tradesmen,  and  are  particular 
in  paying  their  debts,  I  'm  told." 

"Oh,"  said  Brother  Warboise,  "they're  cunning!" 

Brother  Copas  gazed  at  him  admiringly,  and  shot 
a  glance  at  Brother  Bonaday.  But  Brother  Bona- 
day's  eyes  had  wandered  off  again  to  the  skimming 
swallows. 

"Confessed  Romans  and  their  ways,"  said  Brother 
Warboise,  "one  is  prepared  for,  but  not  for  these 
wolves  in  sheep's  clothing.  Why,  only  last  Sunday- 
35 


BROTHER  COPAS 

week  you  must  have  heard  Colt  openly  preaching 
the  confessional!" 

"I  slept,"  said  Brother  Copas.  "But  I  will  take 
your  word  for  it." 

"He  did,  I  assure  you;  and  what's  more — you 
may  know  it  or  not — Royle  and  Biscoe  confess  to 
him  regularly." 

"They  probably  tell  him  nothing  worse  than  their 
suspicions  of  you  and  me.  Colt  is  a  vain  person 
walking  in  a  vain  show." 

"You  don't  realise  the  hold  they  are  getting. 
Look  at  the  money  they  squeeze  out  of  the  public; 
the  churches  they  restore,  and  the  new  ones  they 
build.  And  among  these  younger  Anglicans,  I  tell 
you,  Colt  is  a  force." 

"My  good  Warboise,  you  have  described  him 
exactly.  He  is  a  force — and  nothing  else.  He  will 
bully  and  beat  you  down  to  get  his  way,  but  in  the 
end  you  can  always  have  the  consolation  of  present- 
ing him  with  the  shadow,  which  he  will  unerringly 
mistake  for  the  substance.  I  grant  you  that  to  be 
bullied  and  beaten  down  is  damnably  unpleasant 
discipline,  even  when  set  off  against  the  pleasure  of 
fooling  such  a  fellow  as  Colt.  But  when  a  man  has 
to  desist  from  pursuit  of  pleasure  he  develops  a  fine 
taste  for  consolations:  and  this  is  going  to  be  mine 
for  turning  Protestant  and  backing  you  in  this  busi- 
ness." 

36 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

"Youf" 

"Your  accent  is  so  little  flattering,  Warboise,  that 
I  hardly  dare  to  add  the  condition.  Yet  I  will.  If 
I  stand  in  with  you  in  resisting  Colt,  you  must 
release  Bonaday  here.  Henceforth  he  's  out  of  the 
quarrel." 

"But  I  do  not  understand."  Brother  Warboise 
regarded  Brother  Copas  from  under  his  stiff  grey 
eyebrows.  "Why  should  Bonaday  back  out?" 

"That  is  his  affair,"  answered  Brother  Copas 
smoothly,  almost  before  Brother  Bonaday  was  aware 
of  being  appealed  to. 

"  But — you  don't  mind  my  saying  it — I  've  never 
considered  you  as  a  Protestant,  quite;  not,  at  least, 
as  an  earnest  one." 

"That,"  said  Brother  Copas,  "I  may  be  glad  to 
remember,  later  on.  But  come;  I  offer  you  a 
bargain.  Strike  off  Bonaday  and  enlist  me.  A 
volunteer  is  proverbially  worth  two  pressed  men; 
and  as  a  Protestant  I  promise  you  to  shine.  If 
you  must  have  my  reason,  or  reasons,  say  that  I  am 
playing  for  safety." 

Here  Brother  Copas  laid  down  his  rod  on  the  grassy 
bank  and  felt  for  his  snuff-box.  As  he  helped  him- 
self to  a  pinch  he  slyly  regarded  the  faces  of  his 
companions;  and  his  own,  contracting  its  muscles  to 
take  the  dose,  seemed  to  twist  itself  in  a  sardonic 
smile. 

37 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Unlike  Colt,"  he  explained,  "I  read  history  some- 
times, and  observe  its  omens.  You  say  that  our 
clergy  are  active  just  now  in  building  and  restoring 
churches.  Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  they  were 
never  so  phenomenally  active  in  building  and  re- 
. building  as  on  the  very  eve  of  the  Reformation 
crash?  Ask  and  inquire,  my  friend,  what  propor- 
tion of  our  English  churches  are  Perpendicular;  get 
from  any  handbook  the  date  of  that  style  of  archi- 
tecture; and  apply  the  omen  if  you  will." 

"That  sounds  reassuring,"  said  Brother  Warboise. 
"  And  so  you  really  think  we  Protestants  are  going  to 
win?" 

"God  forbid!  What  I  say  is,  that  the  High  An- 
glicans will  probably  lose." 

"  One  never  knows  when  you  are  joking  or  when 
serious."  Brother  Warboise,  leaning  on  his  staff, 
pondered  Brother  Copas's  face.  It  was  a  fine  face; 
it  even,  resembled  the  conventional  portrait  of  Dante, 
but — I  am  asking  the  reader  to  tax  his  imagination — 
with  humorous  wrinkles  set  about  the  eyes,  their 
high  austerity  clean  taken  away  and  replaced  by  a 
look  of  very  mundane  shrewdness,  and  lastly  a 
grosser  chin  and  mouth  with  a  touch  of  the  laugh- 
ing faun  in  their  folds  and  corners.  "You  are  con- 
cealing your  real  reasons,"  said  Brother  Warboise. 

"That,"  answered  Brother  Copas,  "has  been  de- 
fined for  the  true  function  of  speech.  .  .  .  But  I  am 
38 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

quite  serious  this  time,  and  I  ask  you  again  to  let 
Brother  Bonaday  off  and  take  me  on.  You  will  find 
it  worth  while." 

Brother  Warboise  could  not  see  for  the  life  of  him 
why,  at  a  time  when  it  behooved  all  defenders  of  the 
reformed  religion  to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
Brother  Bonaday  should  want  to  be  let  off. 

"No?"  said  Brother  Copas,  picking  up  his  rod 
again.  "Well,  those  are  my  terms  .  .  .  and,  excuse 
me,  but  was  not  that  a  fish  over  yonder?  They  are 
beginning  to  rise.  ..." 

Brother  Warboise  muttered  that  he  would  think  it 
over,  and  resumed  his  walk. 

"  He  '11  agree,  safe  enough.  And  now,  no  more 
talking!" 

But  after  a  cast  or  two  Brother  Copas  broke  his 
own  injunction. 

"A  Protestant!  .  .  .  I 'm  doing  a  lot  for  you, 
friend.  But  you  must  go  to  the  Master  this  very 
evening.  No  time  to  be  lost,  I  tell  you!  Why,  if 
he  consent,  there  are  a  score  of  small  things  to  be 
bought  to  make  the  place  fit  for  a  small  child.  Get 
out  pencil  and  paper  and  make  a  list.  .  .  .  Wrell, 
where  do  we  begin?" 

"  I — I  'm  sure  I  don't  know, "  confessed  Brother 
Bonaday  helplessly.  "I  never,  so  to  speak,  had  a 
child  before,  you  see." 

39 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  Nor  I  ...  but  damn  it,  man,  let 's  do  our  best 
and  take  things  in  order.  When  she  arrives — let 
me  see — the  first  thing  is,  she  '11  be  hungry.  That 
necessitates  a  small  knife  and  fork.  Knife,  fork  and 
spoon;  regular  godfather's  gift.  You  must  let  me 
stand  godfather  and  supply  'em.  You  don't  happen 
to  know  if  she  's  been  christened,  by  the  way  ? " 

"No — o.  I  suppose  they  look  after  these  things 
in  America?" 

"Probably — after  a  fashion,"  said  Brother  Copas 
with  a  fine  smile.  "Heavens!  if  as  a  Protestant  I  am 
to  fight  the  first  round  over  Infant  Baptism ' 

"There  is  a  font  in  the  chapel." 

"Yes.     I  have  often  wondered  why." 

Brother  Copas  appeared  to  meditate  this  as  he 
slowly  drew  back  his  rod  and  made  a  fresh  cast. 
Again  the  fly  dropped  short  of  the  alder  stump  by  a 
few  inches,  and  fell  delicately  on  the  dark  water  below 
it.  There  was  a  splash — a  soft  gurgling  sound  dear 
to  the  angler's  heart.  Brother  Copas's  rod  bent  and 
relaxed  to  the  brisk  whir  of  its  reel  as  a  trout  took 
fly  and  hook  and  sucked  them  under. 

Then  followed  fifteen  minutes  of  glorious  life. 
Even  Brother  Bonaday's  slow  blood  caught  the  pulse 
of  it.  He  watched,  not  daring  to  utter  a  sound,  his 
limbs  twitching  nervously. 

But  when  the  fish — in  weight  well  over  a  pound — 
had  been  landed  and  lay,  twitching  too,  in  the  grasses 
40 


BROTHER  COPAS  HOOKS  A  FISH 

by  the  Mere  bank,  Brother  Copas,  after  eyeing  it  a 
moment  with  legitimate  pride,  slowly  wound  up  his 
reel. 

"And  I  am  to  be  a  Protestant!  .  .  .  Saint  Peter 
— King  Fisherman — forgive  me!" 


41 


CHAPTER  IV 

CORONA  COMES 

WHEN  Nurse  Branscome  reached  the  docks  and 
inquired  at  what  hour  the  Carnatic  might  be  expected, 
the  gatekeeper  pointed  across  a  maze  of  dock-basins, 
wharves,  tramway-lines,  to  a  far  quay  where  the  great 
steamship  lay  already  berthed. 

"  She  Ve  broken  her  record  by  five  hours  and 
some  minutes,"  he  explained.  "See  that  train  just 
pulling  out  of  the  station?  That  carries  her  mails." 

Nurse  Branscome — a  practical  little  woman  with 
shrewd  grey  eyes — neither  fussed  over  the  news  nor 
showed  any  sign  of  that  haste  which  is  ill  speed. 
Scanning  the  distant  vessel,  she  begged  to  be  told 
the  shortest  way  alongside,  and  noted  the  gate- 
keeper's instructions  very  deliberately,  nodding  her 
head.  They  were  intricate.  At  the  close  she 
thanked  him  and  started,  still  without  appearance  of 
hurry,  and  reached  the  Carnatic  without  a  mistake. 
She  arrived,  too,  a  picture  of  coolness,  though  the 
docks  lay  shadeless  to  the  afternoon  sun,  and  the 
many  tramway-lines  radiated  a  heat  almost  insuffer- 
able. 

42 


CORONA  COMES 

The  same  quiet  air  of  composure  carried  her 
unchallenged  up  a  gangway  and  into  the  great  ship. 
A  gold-braided  junior  officer,  on  duty  at  the  gang- 
way-head, asked  politely  if  he  could  be  of  service 
to  her.  She  answered  that  she  had  come  to  seek 
a  steerage  passenger — a  little  girl  named  Bona- 
day. 

"Ach!"  said  a  voice  close  at  her  elbow,  "that 
will  be  our  liddle  Korona!" 

Nurse  Branscome  turned.  The  voice  belonged  to 
a  blond,  middle-aged  German,  whose  gaze  behind 
his  immense  spectacles  was  of  the  friendliest. 

"Yes — Corona:  that  is  her  name." 

"So!"  said  the  middle-aged  German.  "She  is 
with  my  wive  at  this  moment.  If  I  may  escort  you  ? 
.  .  .  We  will  not  then  drouble  Mister  Smid'  who  is 
so  busy." 

He  led  the  way  forward.  Once  he  turned,  and  in 
the  faint  light  between-decks  his  spectacles  shone 
palely,  like  twin  moons. 

"  I  am  habby  you  are  come, "  he  said.  "  My  wive 
will  be  habby.  ...  I  told  her  a  dozzen  times  it 
will  be  ol'  right — the  ship  has  arrived  before  she  is 
agspected.  .  .  .  But  our  liddle  Korona  is  so  ags- 
cited,  so  imbatient  for  her  well-beloved  England." 

He  pronounced  "England"  as  we  write  it. 

"So!"  he  proclaimed,  halting  before  a  door  and 
throwing  it  open. 

43 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Within,  on  a  cheap  wooden  travelling-trunk,  sat 
a  stout  woman  and  a  child.  The  child  wore  black 
weeds,  and  had — as  Nurse  Branscome  noted  at  first 
glance — remarkably  beautiful  eyes.  Her  right  hand 
lay  imprisoned  between  the  two  palms  of  the  stout 
woman,  who,  looking  up,  continued  to  pat  the  back 
of  it  softly. 

"A  friendt — for  our  Mees  Korona!" 

"Whad  did  I  not  tell  you?"  said  the  stout  woman 
to  the  child,  cooing  the  words  exultantly,  as  she  arose 
to  meet  the  visitor. 

The  two  women  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and 
each  divined  that  the  other  was  good. 

" Good  afternoon,"  said  Nurse  Branscome.  "  I  am 
sorry  to  be  late." 

"But  it  is  we  who  are  early.  .  .  .  We  tell  the 
liddle  one  she  must  have  bribed  the  cabdain,  she 
was  so  crazed  to  arr-rive!" 

"Are  you  related  to  her?" 

"Ach,  no,"  chimed  in  husband  and  wife  together 
as  soon  as  they  understood.  "But  friendts — 
friendts,  Korona — hein?" 

The  husband  explained  that  they  had  made  the 
child's  acquaintance  on  the  first  day  out  from  New 
York,  and  had  taken  to  her  at  once,  seeing  her  so 
forlorn.  He  was  a  baker  by  trade,  and  by  name 
Miiller;  and  he  and  his  wife,  after  doing  pretty  well 
in  Philadelphia,  were  returning  home  to  Bremen, 
44 


CORONA  COMES 

where  his  brother  (also  a  baker)  had  opened  a  pros- 
perous business  and  offered  him  a  partnership. 

— "Which  he  can  well  afford,"  commented  Frau 
M  tiller.  "For  my  husband  is  beyond  combetition 
as  a  master-baker;  and  at  the  end  all  will  go  to  his 
brother's  two  sons.  .  .  .  We  have  not  been  gifen 
children  of  our  own." 

"Yet  home  is  home,"  added  her  husband,  with  an 
expansive  smile,  "though  it  be  bot  the  Vaterland, 
Mees  Korona — hein?"  He  eyed  the  child  quizzically, 
and  turned  to  Nurse1  Branscome.  "She  is  badriotic 
so  as  you  would  nevar  think — 

"  '  Brit-ons  nevar,  nevar,  nev-ar  will  be  Slavs ! '  " 

He  intoned  it  ludicrously,  casting  out  both  hands 
and  snapping  his  fingers  to  the  tune. 

The  child  Corona  looked  past  him  with  a  gaze  that 
put  aside  these  foolish  antics,  and  fastened  itself  on 
Nurse  Branscome. 

"I  think  I  shall  like  you,"  she  said  composedly 
and  with  the  clearest  English  accent.  "  But  I  do 
not  quite  know  who  you  are.  Are  you  fetching  me 
to  daddy?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nurse  Branscome,  and  nodded. 

She  seldom  or  never  wasted  words,  but  nods  made 
up  a  good  part  of  her  conversation. 

Corona  stood  up,  by  this  action  conveying  to  the 
grown-ups— for  she,  too,  economised  speech — that 
45 


BROTHER  COPAS 

she  was  ready  to  go  and  at  once.  Youth  is  selfish, 
even  in  the  sweetest-born  of  natures.  Baker  -Miiller 
and  his  good  wife  looked  at  her  wistfully.  She  had 
come  into  their  childless  life,  and  had  taken  uncon- 
scious hold  on  it,  scarce  six  days  ago — the  inside  of 
a  week.  They  looked  at  her  wistfully.  Her  eyes 
were  on  Nurse  Branscome,  who  stood  for  the  future. 
Yet  she  remembered  that  they  had  been  kind. 
Herr  Miiller,  kind  to  the  last,  ran  off  and  routed 
up  a  seaman  to  carry  her  box  to  the  gangway. 
There,  while  bargaining  with  a  porter,  Nurse  Brans- 
come  had  time  to  observe  with  what  natural  good 
manners  the  child  suffered  herself  to  be  folded  in 
Frau  Miiller's  ample  embrace,  and  how  prettily  she 
shook  hands  with  the  good  baker.  She  turned 
about,  even  once  or  twice,  to  wave  her  farewells. 

"But  she  is  naturally  reserved,"  Nurse  Branscome 
decided.  "Well,  she  '11  be  none  the  worse  for  that." 

She  had  hardly  formed  this  judgment  when 
Corona  went  a  straight  way  to  upset  it.  A  tuft  of 
groundsel  had  rooted  itself  close  beside  the  traction 
rails  a  few  paces  from  the  waterside.  With  a  little 
cry — almost  a  sob — the  child  swooped  upon  the  weed 
and,  plucking  it,  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

"I  promised  to  kiss  the  first  living  thing  I  met  in 
England,"  she  explained. 

"Then   you   might   have   begun   with   me,"   said 
Nurse  Branscome,  laughing. 
46 


CORONA  COMES 

"Oh,  that's  good— I  like  you  to  laugh!  This  is 
real  England,  merry  England,  and  I  used  to  'spect 
it  was  so  good  that  folks  went  about  laughing  all  the 
time,  just  because  they  lived  in  it." 

"  Look  here,  my  dear,  you  mustn't  build  your  ex- 
pectations too  high.  If  you  do,  we  shall  all  disap- 
point you;  which  means  that  you  will  suffer." 

"  But  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  I  've  grown 
since.  .  .  .  And  I  didn't  kiss  you  at  first  because 
it  makes  me  feel  uncomfortable  kissing  folks  out  loud. 
But  I  '11  kiss  you  in  the  cars  when  we  get  to  them." 

But  by  and  by  when  they  found  themselves  seated 
alone  in  a  third-class  compartment  she  forgot  her 
promise,  being  lost  in  wonder  at  this  funny  mode 
of  travelling.  She  examined  the  parcels'  rack  over- 
head. 

"'For  light  articles  only,'"  she  read  out.  "But— 
but  how  do  we  manage  when  it's  bedtime?" 

"Bless  the  child,  we  don't  sleep  in  the  train! 
Why,  in  little  over  an  hour  we  shall  be  at  Merchester, 
and  that 's  home. " 

"Home!"  Corona  caught  at  the  word  and  re- 
peated it  with  a  shiver  of  excitement.  "Home — in 
an  hour!" 

It  was  not  that  she  distrusted;  it  was  only  that 
she  could  not  focus  her  mind  down  to  so  small  a 
distance. 

"And  now,"  said  Nurse  Branscome  cheerfully,  as 
47 


BROTHER  COPAS 

they  settled  themselves  down,  "are  you  going  to  tell 
me  about  your  passage,  or  am  I  to  tell  you  about 
your  father  and  the  sort  of  place  St.  Hospital  is? 
Or  would  you,"  added  this  wise  woman,  "just  like 
to  sit  still  and  look  out  of  window  and  take  it  all 
in  for  a  while?" 

"Thank  you,"  answered  Corona,  "that's  what  I 
want,  ezactly." 

She  nestled  into  her  corner  as  the  train  drew  forth 
beyond  the  purlieus  and  dingy  suburbs  of  the  great 
seaport  and  out  into  the  country — our  south  coun- 
try, all  green  and  glorious  with  summer.  Can  this 
world  show  the  like  of  it,  for  comfort  of  eye  and 
heart? 

Her  eyes  drank,  devoured  it. — Cattle  knee-deep 
in  green  pasture,  belly-deep  in  green  water-flags  by 
standing  pools;  cattle  resting  their  long  flanks 
while  they  chewed  the  cud;  cattle  whisking  their 
tails  amid  the  meadow-sweet,  under  hedges  sprawled 
over  with  wild  rose  and  honeysuckle. — White  flocks 
in  the  lengthening  shade  of  elms;  wood  and  copse; 
silver  river  and  canal  glancing  between  alders,  haw- 
thorns, pollard  willows;  lichened  bridges  of  flint 
and  brick;  ancient  cottages,  thatched  or  red-tiled, 
timber-fronted,  bulging  out  in  friendliest  fashion  on 
the  high  road;  the  high  road  looping  its  way  from 
village  to  village,  still  between  hedges.  Corona  had 
never  before  set  eyes  on  a  real  hedge  in  the  course  of 
48 


CORONA  COMES 

her  young  life;  but  all  this  country — right  away  to 
the  rounded  chalk-hills  over  which  the  heat  shim- 
mered— was  parcelled  out  by  hedges — hedges  by  the 
hundred — and  such  hedges! 

"  It 's — it 's  like  a  garden, "  she  stammered,  turning 
around  and  meeting  a  question  in  Nurse  Branscome's 
eyes.  "It's  all  so  lovely  and  tiny  and  bandboxy. 
However  do  they  find  the  time  for  it?" 

"Eh,  it  takes  time,"  said  Nurse  Branscome, 
amused.  "  You  '11  find  that 's  the  main  secret  with 
us  over  here.  But — disappointed,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  no — no — no!"  the  child  assured  her.  "It's 
ten  times  lovelier  than  ever  I  'spected — only,"  she 
added,  cuddling  down  for  another  long  gaze,  "  it 's 
different — different  in  size." 

"England  's  a  little  place,"  said  Nurse  Branscome. 
"In  the  colonies — I  won't  say  anything  about  the 
States,  for  I  've  never  seen  them;  but  I  've  been  to 
Australia  in  my  time,  and  I  expect  with  Canada 
it 's  much  the  same  or  more  so — in  the  colonies 
everything 's  spread  out;  but  home  here,  I  heard 
Brother  Copas  say,  if  you  want  to  feel  how  great 
anything  is,  you  have  to  take  it  deep-ways,  layer 
below  layer." 

Corona  knit  her  small  brow. 

"But  Windsor  Castle  is  a  mighty  big  place?"  she 
said  hopefully. 

"Oh,  yes." 

49 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  of  that  anyway." 

"But  why,  dear?" 

"Because,"  said  Corona,  "that  is  where  the  King 
lives.  I  used  to  call  him  my  King  over  on  the  Other 
Side,  because  my  name  is  Corona,  and  means  I  was 
born  the  year  he  was  crowned.  They  make  out  they 
don't  hold  much  stock  in  kings,  back  there;  but  that 
sort  of  talk  didn't  take  me  in,  because  when  you 
have  a  King  of  your  own  you  know  what  it  feels  like. 
And,  anyway,  they  had  to  allow  that  King  Edward 
is  a  mighty  big  one,  and  that  he  is  always  making 
peace  for  all  the  world.  ...  So  now  you  know  why 
I  'm  glad  about  Windsor  Castle. " 

"I  'm  afraid  it  is  not  quite  clear  to  me  yet,"  said 
Nurse  Branscome,  leading  her  on. 

"I  can't  'splain  very  well." — The  child  could 
never  quite  compass  the  sound  "ex"  in  words 
where  a  consonant  followed. — "  I  'm  no  good  at 
'splaining.  But  I  guess  if  the  job  was  up  to  you  to 
make  peace  for  all-over-the-world.  you  'd  want  to 
sit  in  a  big  place,  sort  of  empty  an'  quiet,  an'  feel 
like  God."  Corona  gazed  out  of  window  again. 
"You  can  tell  he  's  been  at  it,  too,  hereabouts;  but 
somehow  I  didn't  'spect  it  to  be  all  lying  about  in 
little  bits." 

They  alighted  from  the  idling  train  at  a  small 
country  station  embowered  in  roses,  the  next  on  this 
side  of  Merchester  and  but  a  short  three-quarters 
50 


CORONA  COMES 

of  a  mile  from  St.  Hospital,  towards  which  they  set 
out  on  foot  by  a  meadow-path  and  over  sundry 
stiles,  a  porter  following  (or  rather  making  a  detour 
after  them  along  the  high  road)  and  wheeling  Coro- 
na's effects  on  a  barrow.  From  the  first  stile  Nurse 
Branscome  pointed  out  the  grey  Norman  buildings, 
the  chapel  tower,  the  clustering  trees,  and  sup- 
ported Corona  with  a  hand  under  her  elbow  as, 
perched  on  an  upper  bar  with  her  knees  against 
the  top  rail,  she  drank  in  her  first  view  of  home. 

Her  first  comment — it  shaped  itself  into  a  question, 
or  rather  into  two  questions — gave  Nurse  Branscome 
a  shock:  it  was  so  infantile  in  comparison  with  her 
talk  in  the  train. 

"  Does  daddy  live  there  ?  And  is  he  so  very  old, 
then?" 

Then  Nurse  Branscome  bethought  her  that  this 
mite  had  never  yet  seen  her  father,  and  that  he  was 
not  only  an  aged  man  but  a  broken-down  one,  and 
in  appearance  (as  they  say)  older  than  his  years.  A 
great  pity  seized  her  for  Corona,  and  in  the  rush  of 
pity  all  her  oddities  and  grown-up  tricks  of  speech 
(Americanisms  apart)  explained  themselves.  She 
was  an  old  father's  child.  Nurse  Branscome  was 
midwife  enough  to  know  what  freakishness  and 
frailty  belong  to  children  begotten  by  old  age.  Yet 
Corona,  albeit  gaunt  with  growing,  was  lithe  and 
well-formed,  and  of  a  healthy  complexion  and  a 
clear,  though  it  inclined  to  pallor. 
51 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Your  father  is  not  a  young  man,"  she  said  gently. 
"You  must  be  prepared  for  that,  dear.  .  .  .  And  of 
course  his  dress — the  dress  of  the  Beauchamp  Breth- 
ren— makes  him  look  even  older  than  he  is." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Corona,  turning  about  as 
well  as  she  could  on  the  stile  and  putting  the  direct 
question  with  direct  eyes. 

"  It 's  a  long  gown,  a  gown  of  reddish-purple,  with 
a  silver  rose  at  the  breast." 

"Save  us!"  exclaimed  this  unaccountable  child. 
"  'Seems  I  'd  better  start  right  in  by  asking  what 
news  of  the  Crusades." 

In  the  spare  room  pertaining  to  Brother  Bonaday 
he  and  Brother  Copas  were  (as  the  latter  put  it) 
making  very  bad  weather  with  their  preparations. 
They  supposed  themselves,  however,  to  have  plenty 
of  time,  little  guessing  that  the  captain  of  the  Car- 
natic  had  been  breaking  records.  In  St.  Hospital 
one  soon  learns  to  neglect  mankind's  infatuation  for 
mere  speed;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  Brother  Copas 
was  discoursing  on  this  very  subject. 

He  had  produced  certain  purchases  from  his 
wallet,  and  disposed  them  on  the  chest  of  drawers 
which  was  to  serve  Corona  for  dressing-table.  They 
included  a  cheap  mirror,  and  here  he  felt  himself  on 
safe  ground;  but  certain  others, — such  as  a  gaudily- 
dressed  doll,  priced  at  Is.  3d.,  a  packet  of  hairpins, 
a  book  of  coloured  photographs,  entitled  Souvenir 
52 


CORONA  COMES 

of  Royal  Merchester — he  eyed  more  dubiously.  He 
had  found  it  hard  to  bear  in  mind  the  child's  exact 
age.  "But  she  was  born  in  Coronation  Year.  I 
have  told  you  that  over  and  over,"  Brother  Bonaday 
would  protest.  "My  dear  fellow,  I  know  you  have; 
but  the  devil  is,  that  means  something  different 
every  time." 

—"The  purpose  of  all  right  motion,"  Brother  Copas 
was  saying,  "is  to  get  back  to  the  point  from  which 
you  started.  Take  the  sun  itself,  on  any  created 
mass;  take  the  smallest  molecule  in  that  mass;  take 
the  world  whichever  way  you  will — 

"'Behold  the  world,  how  it  is  wnirled  round! 
And  for  it  so  is  whirl'd  is  named  so.' 

(There  's  pretty  etymology  for  you!)  All  movement 
in  a  straight  line  is  eccentric,  lawless,  or  would  be 
were  it  possible,  which  I  doubt.  Why  this  haste, 
then,  in  passing  given  points?  If  man  did  it  in  a 
noble  pride,  as  a  tour  de  force,  to  prove  himself  so 
much  the  cleverer  than  the  brute  creation,  I  could 
understand  it;  but  if  that 's  his  game,  a  speck  of 
radium  beats  him  in  a  common  canter.  I  read  in 
a  scientific  paper  last  week,  in  a  signed  article 
which  bore  every  impress  of  truth,  that  there  's  a 
high  explosive  that  will  run  a  spark  from  here  to 
Paris  while  you  are  pronouncing  its  name.  Yet 
extend  that  run,  and  run  it  far  and  fast  as  you  will, 
53 


BROTHER  COPAS 

it  can  only  come  back  to  your  hand.  .  .  .  Which," 
continued  Brother  Copas,  raising  his  voice,  for 
Brother  Bonaday  had  toddled  into  the  sitting-room 
to  see  if  the  kettle  boiled,  "  reminds  me  of  a  story  I 
picked  up  in  the  Liberal  Club  the  other  day,  the  truth 
of  it  guaranteed.  Ten  or  eleven  years  ago  the  Mayor 
of  Merchester  died  on  the  very  eve  of  St.  Giles's 
Fair.  The  Town  Council  met,  and  some  were  for 
stopping  the  shows  and  steam  roundabouts  as  a  mark 
of  respect,  while  others  doubted  that  the  masses 
(among  whom  the  Mayor  had  not  been  popular) 
would  resent  this  curtailing  of  their  fun.  In  the 
end  a  compromise  was  reached.  The  proprietor  of 
the  roundabouts  was  sent  for,  and  the  show-ground 
granted  to  him,  on  condition  that  he  made  his  steam- 
organ  play  hymn  tunes.  He  accepted,  and  that  week 
the  merry-makers  revolved  to  the  strains  of  'Nearer, 
my  God,  to  Thee.'  It  sounds  absurd;  but  when 
you  come  to  reflect — 

Brother  Copas  broke  off,  hearing  a  slight  com- 
motion in  the  next  room.  Brother  Bonaday,  kneel- 
ing and  puffing  at  the  fire  which  refused  to  boil  the 
water,  had  been  startled  by  voices  in  the  entry. 
Looking  up,  flushed  of  face,  he  beheld  a  child  on  the 
threshold,  with  Nurse  Branscome  standing  behind 
her. 

"Daddy!" 

Brother  Copas  from  one  doorway,  Nurse  Brans- 
54 


CORONA    COMES 

come  from  the  other,  saw  Brother  Bonaday's  face 
twitch  as  with  a  pang  of  terror.  He  arose  slowly 
from  his  knees,  and  very  slowly — as  if  his  will  strug- 
gled against  some  invisible,  detaining  force — held  out 
both  hands.  Corona  ran  to  them;  but,  grasped  by 
them,  drew  back  for  a  moment,  scanning  him  before 
she  suffered  herself  to  be  kissed. 

"My,  what  a  dear  old  dress!  .  .  .  Daddy,  you 
are  a  dude!" 


55 


CHAPTER  V 

BROTHER  COPAS   ON   RELIGIOUS   DIFFERENCE 

"An,  good  evening,  Mr.  Simeon!'* 

In  the  British  Isles — search  them  all  over — you 
will  discover  no  more  agreeable  institution  of  its 
kind  than  the  Venables  Free  Library,  Merchester; 
which,  by  the  way,  you  are  on  no  account  to  confuse 
with  the  Free  Public  Library  attached  to  the  Shire 
Hall.  In  the  latter  you  may  study  the  newspapers 
with  all  the  latest  financial,  police  and  betting  news, 
or  borrow  all  the  newest  novels — even  this  novel 
which  I  am  writing,  should  the  Library  Sub-Com- 
mittee of  the  Town  Council  (an  austerely  moral 
body)  allow  it  to  pass.  In  the  Venables  Library  the 
books  are  mostly  mellowed  by  age,  even  when 
naughtiest  (it  contains  a  whole  roomful  of  Resto- 
ration Plays,  an  unmatched  collection),  and  no  news- 
papers are  admitted,  unless  you  count  the  monthly 
and  quarterly  reviews,  of  which  The  Hibbcrt  Journal 
is  the  newest-f angled.  By  consequence  the  Venables 
Library,  though  open  to  all  men  without  payment, 
has  few  frequenters;  "which,"  says  Brother  Copas, 
"is  just  as  it  should  be." 

56 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

But  not  even  public  neglect  will  account  for  the 
peculiar  charm  of  the  Venables  Library.  That  comes 
of  the  building  it  inhabits:  anciently  a  town  house 
of  the  Marquesses  of  Merchester,  abandoned  at  the 
close  of  the  great  Civil  War,  and  by  them  never 
again  inhabited,  but  maintained  with  all  its  old 
furniture,  and  from  time  to  time  patched  up  against 
age  and  weather — happily  not  restored.  When  early 
in  the  last  century  the  seventh  Marquess  of  Mer- 
chester very  handsomely  made  it  over  to  a  body  of 
trustees,  to  house  a  collection  of  books  bequeathed 
to  the  public  by  old  Dean  Venables,  Merchester's 
most  scholarly  historian,  it  was  with  a  stipulation 
that  the  amenities  of  the  house  should  be  as  little 
as  possible  disturbed.  The  beds,  to  be  sure,  were 
removed  from  the  upper  rooms,  and  the  old  carpets 
from  the  staircase;  and  the  walls,  upstairs  and  down, 
lined  with  bookcases.  But  a  great  deal  of  the  old 
furniture  remains;  and,  wandering  at  will  from  one 
room  to  another,  you  look  forth  through  latticed 
panes  upon  a  garth  fenced  off  from  the  street  with 
railings  of  twisted  iron-work  and .  overspread  by  a 
gigantic  mulberry  tree,  the  boughs  of  which  in 
summer,  if  you  are  wise  enough  to  choose  a  win- 
dow-seat, will  filter  the  sunlight  upon  your  open 
book, 

"Annihilating  all  that 's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade." 
57 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Lastly,  in  certain  of  the  rooms  smoking  is  permitted; 
some  bygone  trustee — may  earth  lie  lightly  on  him! — 
having  discovered  and  taught  that  of  all  things  a 
book  is  about  the  most  difficult  to  burn.  You  may 
smoke  in  Paradise,  for  instance.  By  this  name,  for 
what  reason  I  cannot  tell,  is  known  the  room  con- 
taining the  Greek  and  Latin  classics. 

Brother  Copas,  entering  Paradise  with  a  volume 
under  his  arm,  found  Mr.  Simeon  seated  there  alone 
with  a  manuscript  and  a  Greek  lexicon  before  him, 
and  gave  him  good  evening. 

"Good  evening,  Brother  Copas!  .  .  .  You  have 
been  a  stranger  to  us  for  some  weeks,  unless  I 
mistake?" 

"You  are  right.  These  have  been  stirring  times 
in  politics,  and  for  the  last  five  or  six  weeks  I  have 
been  helping  to  save  my  country,  at  the  Liberal 
Club." 

Mr.  Simeon — a  devoted  Conservative — came  as 
near  to  frowning  as  his  gentle  nature  would  permit. 

"You  disapprove,  of  course,"  continued  Brother 
Copas  easily.  "Well,  so — in  a  sense — do  I.  We 
beat  you  at  the  polls;  not  in  Merchester — we  shall 
never  carry  Merchester — though  even  in  Merchester 
we  put  up  fight  enough  to  rattle  you  into  a  blue 
funk.  But  God  help  the  pair  of  us,  Mr.  Simeon, 
if  our  principles  are  to  be  judged  by  the  uses  other 
men  make  of  'em!  I  have  had  enough  of  my  fellow- 
68 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

Liberals  to  last  me  for  some  time.  .  .  .  Why  are 
you  studying  Liddell  and  Scott,  by  the  way?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  Mr.  Simeon  confessed,  "this 
is  my  fair  copy  of  the  Master's  Gaudy  Sermon.  I  am 
running  it  through  and  correcting  the  Greek  accents. 
I  am  always  shaky  at  accents." 

"Why  not  let  me  help  you?"  Brother  Copas  sug- 
gested. "  Upon  my  word,  you  may  trust  me.  I  am, 
as  nearly  as  possible,  impeccable  with  Greek  accents, 
and  may  surely  say  so  without  vanity,  since  the  gift 
is  as  useless  as  any  other  of  mine." 

Mr.  Simeon,  as  we  know,  was  well  aware  of 
this. 

"I  should  be  most  grateful,"  he  confessed,  in 
some  compunction.  "But  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
Master — if  you  will  excuse  me — would  care  to  have 
his  sermon  overlooked.  Strictly  speaking,  indeed, 
I  ought  not  to  have  brought  it  from  home:  but 
with  six  children  in  a  very  small  house — and  on  a 
warm  evening  like  this,  you  understand — 

"I  once  kept  a  private  school,"  said  Brother 
Copas. 

"They  are  high-spirited  children,  I  thank  God." 
Mr.  Simeon  sighed.  "  Moreover,  as  it  happened,  they 
wanted  my  Liddell  and  Scott  to  play  at  forts  with." 

"Trust  me,  my  dear  sir.  I  will  confine  myself 
to  the  Master's  marginalia  without  spying  upon  the 
text." 

59 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Brother  Copas,  as  Mr.  Simeon  yielded  to  his  gen- 
tle insistence,  laid  his  own  book  on  the  table,  and 
seated  himself  before  the  manuscript,  which  he  ran 
through  at  great  speed. 

"H'm — h'm  .  .  .  tyvxn  here  is  oxyton — here  and 
always  .  .  .  and  avorjTos  proparoxy ton :  you  have 
left  it  unaccented." 

"I  was  waiting  to  look  it  up,  having  some  idea 
that  it  held  a  contraction." 

Brother  Copas  dipped  pen  and  inserted  the  accent 
without  comment. 

"I  see  nothing  else  amiss,"  he  said,  rising. 

"It  is  exceedingly  kind  of  you." 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is;  for  I  came  here 
expressly  to  cultivate  a  bad  temper,  and  you  have 
helped  to  confirm  me  in  a  good  one.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  know  what  you  would  say  if  your  politeness 
allowed:  'Why,  if  bad  temper's  my  object,  did  I 
leave  the  Liberal  Club  and  come  here?'  Because, 
my  dear  sir,  at  the  Club — though  there  's  plenty — 
it 's  of  the  wrong  sort.  I  wanted  a  religiously  bad 
temper,  and  an  intelligent  one  to  boot." 

"I  don't  see  what  religion  and  bad  temper  have 
to  do  with  one  another,"  confessed  Mr.  Simeon. 

"That  is  because  your  are  a  good  man,  and  there- 
fore your  religion  doesn't  matter  to  you." 

"But  really,"  Mr.  Simeon  protested,  flushing, 
"though  one  doesn't  willingly  talk  of  these  inmost 
60 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

things,  you  must  allow  me  to  say  that  my  religion 
is  everything  to  me.'* 

"You  say  that,  and  believe  it.  Religion,  you  be- 
lieve, colours  all  your  life,  suffuses  it  with  goodness 
as  with  a  radiance.  But  actually,  my  friend,  it  is 
your  own  good  heart  that  colours  and  throws  its 
radiance  into  your  religion. 

" '  O  lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live ' — 

" — or  religion  either.  .  .  .  Pardon  me,  but  a  thor- 
oughly virtuous  or  a  thoroughly  amiable  man  is  not 
worth  twopence  as  a  touchstone  for  a  creed;  he  would 
convert  even  Mormonism  to  a  thing  of  beauty.  .  .  . 
Whereas  the  real  test  of  any  religion  is — as  I  saw 
it  excellently  well  put  the  other  day — '  not  what  form 
it  takes  in  a  virtuous  mind,  but  what  effects  it  pro- 
duces on  those  of  another  sort.'  Well,  I  have  been 
studying  those  effects  pretty  well  all  my  life,  and  they 
may  be  summed  up,  roughly  but  with  fair  accuracy, 
as  Bad  Temper." 

"Good  men  or  bad,"  persisted  Mr.  Simeon, 
"what  can  the  Christian  religion  do  but  make  them 
both  better?" 

"Which  Christian  religion?  Catholic  or  Protes- 
tant? Anglican  or  Nonconformist?  ...  I  won't  ask 
you  to  give  away  your  own  side.  So  we  '11  take 
the  Protestant  Nonconformists.  There  are  a  good 
61 


BROTHER  COPAS 

many  down  at  the  Club:  you  heard  some  of  the 
things  they  said  and  printed  during  the  Election; 
and  while  your  charity  won't  deny  that  they  are 
religious — some  of  'em  passionately  religious — you 
will  make  haste  to  concede  that  their  religion  and 
their  bad  temper  were  pretty  well  inseparable.  They 
would  say  pretty  much  the  same  of  you  Anglicans." 

"You  will  not  pretend  that  we  show  bad  temper 
in  anything  like  the  same  degree." 

"Why  should  you?  ...  I  don't  know  that,  as 
a  fact,  there  is  much  to  choose  between  you;  but 
at  any  rate  the  worse  temper  belongs  very  properly 
to  the  under  dog.  Your  Protestant  is  the  under  dog 
in  England  to-day;  socially,  if  not  politically.  .  .  . 
Yes,  and  politically,  too;  for  he  may  send  what 
majority  he  will  to  the  House  of  Commons  pledged 
to  amend  the  Education  Act  of  1902:  he  does  it  in 
vain.  The  House  of  Lords — which  is  really  not  a 
political  but  a  social  body,  the  citadel  of  a  class — 
will  confound  his  politics,  frustrate  his  knavish 
tricks.  Can  you  wonder  that  he  loses  his  temper, 
sometimes  inelegantly?  And  when  the  rich  Non- 
conformist tires  of  striving  against  all  the  odds — 
when  he  sets  up  his  carriage,  and  his  wife  and 
daughters  find  that  it  won't  carry  them  where  they 
had  hoped — when  he  surrenders  to  their  persuasions 
and  goes  over  to  the  enemy — why  then  can  you 
wonder  that  his  betrayed  co-religionists  roar  all  like 
62 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

bears  or  foam  like  dogs  and  run  about  the  city? 
...  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Simeon,  this  England 
of  ours  stands  in  real  peril  to-day  of  merging  its 
class  warfare  in  religious  differences." 

"You  mean  it,  of  course,  the  other  way  about — 
of  merging  our  religion  in  class  warfare." 

"  I  mean  it  as  I  said  it.  Class  warfare  is  among 
Englishmen  a  quite  normal,  healthy  function  of  the 
body  politic:  it  keeps  the  blood  circulating.  It  is 
when  you  start  infecting  it  with  religion  the  trouble 
begins.  .  .  .  We  are  a  sane  people,  however,  on 
the  whole;  and  every  sane  person  is  better  than 
his  religion." 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?" 

"  How  can  you  gainsay  it — nay,  or  begin  to  doubt 
it — if  only  you  will  be  honest  with  yourself?  Con- 
sider how  many  abominable  things  religion  has 
taught,  and  man,  by  the  natural  goodness  of  his  heart, 
has  outgrown.  Do  you  believe,  for  example,  that 
an  unchristened  infant  goes  wailing  forth  from  the 
threshold  of  life  into  an  eternity  of  punishment? 
Look  me  in  the  face,  you  father  of  six!  No,  of 
course  you  don't  believe  it.  Nobody  does.  And 
the  difference  is  not  that  religion  has  ceased  to  teach 
it — for  it  hasn't — but  that  men  have  grown  decent 
and  put  it,  with  like  doctrines,  silently  aside  in 
disgust.  So  it  has  happened  to  Satan  and  his  fork: 
they  have  become  'old  hat.'  So  it  will  happen  to 
63 


BROTHER  COPAS 

all  the  old  machinery  of  hell:  the  operating  decency 
of  human  nature  will  grow  ashamed  of  it — that 
is  all.  .  .  .  Why,  if  you  look  into  men's  ordinary 
daily  conduct — which  is  the  only  true  test — they 
never  believed  in  such  things.  Do  you  suppose  that 
the  most  frantic  Scotch  Calvinist,  when  he  was  his 
douce  daily  self  and  not  temporarily  intoxicated  by 
his  creed,  ever  treated  his  neighbours  in  practice 
as  men  predestined  to  damnation?  Of  course  he 
didn't!" 

"But  religion,"  objected  Mr.  Simeon,  "lifts  a  man 
out  of  himself — his  daily  self,  as  you  call  it." 

"It  does  that,  by  Jove!"  Brother  Copas  felt  for 
his  snuff-box.  "Why,  what  else  was  I  arguing?" 

"And,"  pursued  Mr.  Simeon,  his  voice  gaining 
assurance  as  it  happened  on  a  form  of  words  he  had 
learnt  from  somebody  else,  "the  efficacy  of  religion 
is  surely  just  here,  that  it  lifts  the  individual  man 
out  of  his  personality  and  wings  him  towards  Abba, 
the  all-fatherly — as  I  heard  it  said  the  other  day," 
he  added  lamely. 

"Good  Lord!" — Brother  Copas  eyed  him  over  a 
pinch.  "You  must  have  been  keeping  pretty  bad 
company  lately.  Who  is  it  ?  .  .  .  That  sounds  a  trifle 
too  florid  even  for  Colt — the  sort  of  thing  Colt  would 
achieve  if  he  could.  .  .  .  Upon  my  word,  I  believe 
you  must  have  been  sitting  under  Tarbolt!" 

Mr.  Simeon  blushed  guiltily  to  the  eyes.  But  it 
64 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

was  ever  the  mischief  with  Brother  Copas's  worldly 
scent  that  he  overran  it  on  the  stronger  scent  of  an 
argument. 

"  But  it 's  precisely  a  working  daily  religion,  a 
religion  that  belongs  to  a  man  when  he  is  himself, 
that  I  'm  after,"  he  ran  on.  "You  fellows  hold  that 
a  sound  religious  life  will  ensure  you  an  eternity 
of  bliss  at  the  end.  Very  well.  You  fellows  know 
that  the  years  of  a  man's  life  are,  roughly,  three- 
score and  ten.  (Actually  it  works  out  far  below  that 
figure,  but  I  make  you  a  present  of  the  difference.) 
Very  well  again.  I  take  any  average  Christian  aged 
forty-five,  and  what  sort  of  premium  do  I  observe 
him  paying — I  won't  say  on  a  policy  of  Eternal  Bliss 
— but  on  any  policy  a  business-like  Insurance  Com- 
pany would  grant  for  three  hundred  pounds  ?  There 
is  the  difference  too,"  added  Brother  Copas,  "that 
he  gets  the  eternal  bliss,  while  the  three  hundred 
pounds  goes  to  his  widow." 

Brother  Copas  took  a  second  pinch,  his  eyes  on 
Mr.  Simeon's  face.  He  could  not  guess  the  secret  of 
the  pang  that  passed  over  it — that  in  naming  three 
hundred  pounds  he  had  happened  on  the  precise 
sum  in  which  Mr.  Simeon  was  insured,  and  that 
trouble  enough  the  poor  man  had  to  find  the  yearly 
premium,  due  now  in  a  fortnight's  time.  But  he  saw 
that  somehow  he  had  given  pain,  and  dexterously  slid 
off  the  subject,  yet  without  appearing  to  change  it. 
65 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"For  my  part,"  he  went  on,  "I  know  a  method 
by  which,  if  made  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and 
allowed  a  strong  hand,  I  would  undertake  to  bring, 
within  ten  years,  every  Dissenter  in  England  within 
the  Church's  fold." 

"What  would  you  do?" 

"  I  would  lay,  in  one  pastoral  of  a  dozen  sentences, 
the  strictest  orders  on  my  clergy  to  desist  from  all 
politics,  all  fighting;  to  disdain  any  cry,  any  strug- 
gle; to  accept  from  Dissent  any  rebuff,  persecution, 
spoliation — while  steadily  ignoring  it.  In  every  par- 
ish my  Church's  attitude  should  be  this:  'You  may 
deny  me,  hate  me,  persecute  me,  strip  me:  but  you 
are  a  Christian  of  this  parish  and  therefore  my 
parishioner;  and  therefore  I  absolutely  defy  you  to 
escape  my  forgiveness  or  my  love.  Though  you 
flee  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  you  shall 
not  escape  these:  by  these,  as  surely  as  I  am  the 
Church,  you  shall  be  mine  in  the  end/  .  .  .  And 
do  you  think,  Mr.  Simeon,  any  man  in  England 
could  for  ever  resist  that  appeal?  A  few  of  us  ag- 
nostics, perhaps.  But  we  are  human  souls,  after 
all:  and  no  one  is  an  agnostic  for  the  fun  of  it.  We 
should  be  tempted — sorely  tempted — I  don't  say 
rightly." 

Mr.  Simeon's  eyes  shone.    The  picture  touched  him. 

"  But  it  would  mean  that  the  Church  must  com- 
promise," he  murmured. 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

"That  is  precisely  what  it  would  not  mean.  It 
would  mean  that  all  her  adversaries  must  com- 
promise; and  with  love  there  is  only  one  compromise, 
which  is  surrender.  .  .  .  But/'  continued  Brother 
Copas,  resuming  his  lighter  tone,  "this  presupposes 
not  only  a  sensible  Archbishop  but  a  Church  not 
given  up  to  anarchy  as  the  Church  of  England  is. 
Let  us  therefore  leave  speculating  and  follow  our 
noses;  which  with  me,  Mr.  Simeon — and  confound 
you  for  a  pleasant  companion! — means  an  instant 
necessity  to  cultivate  bad  temper." 

He  picked  up  his  volume  from  the  table  and  walked 
off  with  it  to  the  window-seat. 

"You  are  learning  bad  temper  from  a  book?" 
asked  Mr.  Simeon,  taking  off  his  spectacles  and 
following  Brother  Copas  with  mild  eyes  of  wonder. 

"Certainly.  ...  If  ever  fortune,  my  good  sir, 
should  bring  you  (which  God  forbid!)  to  end  your 
days  in  our  College  of  Noble  Poverty,  you  will  under- 
stand the  counsel  given  by  the  pilot  to  Pantagruel 
and  his  fellow-voyagers — that  considering  the  gentle- 
ness of  the  breeze  and  the  calm  of  the  current,  as 
also  that  they  stood  neither  in  hope  of  much  good 
nor  in  fear  of  much  harm,  he  advised  them  to  let  the 
ship  drive,  nor  busy  themselves  with  anything  but 
making  good  cheer.  I  have  done  with  all  worldly 
fear  and  ambition;  and  therefore  in  working  up  a 
hearty  Protestant  rage  (to  which  a  hasty  promise 
67 


BROTHER  COPAS 

commits  me),  I  can  only  tackle  my  passion  on  the 
intellectual  side.  Those  fellows  down  at  the  Club 
are  no  help  to  me  at  all.  .  .  .  My  book?  It  is  the 
last  volume  of  Mr.  Froude's  famous  History  of 
England.  Here  's  a  passage  now — 

" '  The  method  of  Episcopal  appointments,  insti- 
tuted by  Henry  VIII  as  a  temporary  expedient  and 
abolished  under  Edward  as  an  unreality,  was  re- 
established by  Elizabeth,  not  certainly  because  she 
believed  that  the  invocation  of  the  Holy  Ghost  was 
required  for  the  completeness  of  an  election  which  her 
own  choice  had  already  determined,  not  because  the 
bishops  obtained  any  gifts  or  graces  in  their  consecra- 
tion which  she  herself  respected,  but  because  the 
shadowy  form  of  an  election,  with  a  religious  ceremony 
following  it,  gave  them  the  semblance  of  spiritual 
independence,  the  semblance  without  the  substance, 
which  qualified  them  to  be  the  instruments  of  the  sys- 
tem which  she  desired  to  enforce.  They  were  tempted 
to  presume  on  their  phantom  dignity,  till  a  sword  of 
a  second  Cromwell  taught  them  the  true  value  of  their 
Apostolic  descent.  .  .  .' 

"  That 's  pretty  well  calculated  to  annoy,  eh  ? 
Also,  by  the  way,  in  its  careless  rapture  it  twice 
misrelates  the  relative  pronoun;  and  Froude  was  a 
master  of  style.  Or  what  do  you  say  to  this? — 

"'But  neither  Elizabeth  nor  later  politicians  of 
Elizabeth's  temperament  desired  the  Church  of  England 


ON  RELIGIOUS  DIFFERENCE 

to  become  too  genuine.  It  has  been  more  convenient 
to  leave  an  element  of  unsoundness  at  the  heart  of  an 
institution  which,  if  sincere,  might  be  dangerously 
powerful.  The  wisest  and  best  of  its  bishops  have 
found  their  influence  impaired,  their  position  made 
equivocal,  by  the  element  of  unreality  which  adheres 
to  them.  A  feeling  approaching  to  contempt  has 
blended  with  the  reverence  attaching  to  their  position, 
and  has  prevented  them  from  carrying  the  weight  in 
the  councils  of  the  nation  which  has  been  commanded 
by  men  of  no  greater  intrinsic  eminence  in  other  pro- 
fessions.' 

"Yet  another  faulty  relative! 

"'Pretensions  which  many  of  them  would  have 
gladly  abandoned  have  connected  their  office  with  a 
smile.  The  nature  of  it  has  for  the  most  part  filled 
the  Sees  with  men  of  second-rate  abilities.  The  latest 
and  most  singular  theory  about  them  is  that  of  the 
modern  English  Neo-Catholic,  who  disregards  his 
bishop's  advice,  and  despises  his  censures;  but  looks 
on  him  nevertheless  as  some  high-bred,  worn-out  ani- 
mal, useless  in  himself,  but  infinitely  valuable  for  some 
mysterious  purpose  of  spiritual  propagation.'" 

Brother  Copas  laid  the  volume  face-downward  on 
his  knee — a  trivial  action  in  itself;  but  he  had  a 
conscience  about  books,  and  would  never  have  done 
this  to  a  book  he  entirely  respected. 

"Has  it  struck  you,  Mr.  Simeon,"  he  asked,  "that 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Froude  is  so  diabolically  effective  just  because  in 
every  fibre  of  him  he  is  at  one  with  the  thing  he 
attacks?" 

"He  had  been  a  convert  of  the  Tractarians  in  his 
young  days,  I  have  heard,"  said  Mr.  Simeon. 

"Yes,  it  accounts  for  much  in  him.  Yet  I  was 
not  thinking  of  that — which  was  an  experience  only, 
though  significant.  The  man's  whole  cast  of  mind 
is  priestly  despite  himself.  He  has  all  the  priest- 
hood's alleged  tricks:  you  can  never  be  sure  that 
he  is  not  faking  evidence  or  garbling  a  quotation. 
.  .  .  My  dear  Mr.  Simeon,  truly  it  behoves  us  to 
love  our  enemies,  since  in  this  world  they  are  often 
the  nearest  we  have  to  us." 


70 


CHAPTER  VI 

GAUDY  DAY 

IN  the  sunshine,  on  a  lower  step  of  the  stone  stair- 
way that  leads  up  and  through  the  shadow  of  vaulted 
porch  to  the  Hundred  Men's  Hall,  or  refectory, 
Brother  Biscoe  stood  with  a  hand-bell  and  rang  to 
dinner.  Brother  Biscoe  was  a  charming  old  man  to 
look  upon;  very  frail  and  venerable,  with  a  somewhat 
weak  face;  and  as  senior  pensioner  of  the  Hospital 
he  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  ringing  to  dinner  on 
Gaudy  Days — twenty-seven  strokes,  distinct  and  sep- 
arately counted — one  for  each  brother  on  the  two 
foundations. 

The  Brethren,  however,  loitered  in  groups  before 
their  doorways,  along  the  west  side  of  the  quadrangle, 
awaiting  a  signal  from  the  porter's  lodge.  Brother 
Manby,  there,  had  promised  to  warn  them  as  soon 
as  the  Master  emerged  from  his  lodging  with  the 
other  Trustees  and  a  few  distinguished  guests — in- 
cluding the  Bishop  of  Merchester,  Visitor  of  St.  Hos- 
pital— on  their  way  to  dine.  The  procession  would 
take  at  least  three  minutes  coming  through  the  outer 
court — ample  time  for  the  Brethren  to  scramble  up 
71 


BROTHER  COPAS 

the  stairway,  take  their  places,  and  assume  the  right 
air  of  reverent  expectancy. 

As  a  rule — Brother  Copas,  standing  on  the  gravel 
below  Brother  Biscoe  and  counting  the  strokes  for 
him,  begged  him  to  note  it — they  were  none  so 
dilatory.  But  gossip  held  them.  His  shrewd  glance 
travelled  from  group  to  group,  and  between  the 
strokes  of  the  bell  he  counted  the  women-folk. 

"They  are  all  at  their  doors,"  he  murmured. 
"For  a  look  at  the  dear  Bishop,  think  you?" 

"They  are  watching  to  see  what  Warboise  will 
do,"  quavered  Brother  Biscoe.  "Oh,  I  know!" 

"The  women  don't  seem  to  be  taking  much  truck 
with  Warboise  or  his  Petition.  See  him  over  there, 
with  Plant  and  Ibbetson  only.  .  .  .  And  Ibbetson  's 
only  there  because  his  wife  has  more  appetising  fish 
to  fry.  But  she  's  keeping  an  eye  on  him — watch 
her  I  Poor  woman,  for  once  she  's  discovering  Ru- 
mour to  be  almost  too  full  of  tongues." 

"  I  wonder  you  're  not  over  there  too,  lending  War- 
boise support,"  suggested  Brother  Biscoe.  "  Royle  told 
me  last  night  that  you  had  joined  the  Protestant  swim. " 

"But  I  am  here,  you  see,"  Brother  Copas  answered 
sweetly;  "and  just  for  the  pleasure  of  doing  you  a 
small  service." 

Even  this  did  not  disarm  the  old  man,  whose  tem- 
per was  malignant. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  crew.  A  secret 
72 


GAUDY  DAY 

drinker  like  Plant,  for  instance!    And  your  friend 
Bonaday,  in  his  second  childhood — 

"Bonaday  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  us." 

"Ah?"  Brother  Biscoe  shot  him  a  sidelong  glance. 
"  He  's  more  pleasantly  occupied,  perhaps  ? — if  it 's 
true  what  they  tell  me." 

"It  never  is,"  said  Brother  Copas  imperturbably; 
"though  I  haven't  a  notion  to  what  you  refer." 

"But  surely  you  've  heard?" 

"Nothing:  and  if  it  concerns  Bonaday,  you  'd  best 
hold  your  tongue  just  now;  for  here  he  is." 

Brother  Bonaday  in  fact,  with  Nurse  Branscome 
and  Corona,  at  that  moment  emerged  from  the  door- 
way of  his  lodgings,  not  ten  paces  distant  from  the 
steps  of  the  Hundred  Men's  Hall.  The  three  paused, 
just  outside — the  Nurse  and  Corona  to  await  the  pro- 
cession of  Visitors,  due  now  at  any  moment.  Brother 
Bonaday  stood  and  blinked  in  the  strong  sunlight: 
but  the  child,  catching  sight  of  Brother  Copas  as  he 
left  Brother  Biscoe  and  hurried  towards  her,  ran  to 
meet  him  with  a  friendly  nod. 

"I  've  come  out  to  watch  the  procession,"  she  an- 
nounced. "That 's  all  we  women  are  allowed;  while 
you — Branny  says  there 's  to  be  ducks  and  green  peas! 
Did  you  know  that?" 

"Surely  you  must  have  observed  my  elation?" 

Brother  Copas  stood  and  smiled  at  her,  leaning  on 
his  staff. 

73 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"The  Bishop  wears  gaiters  they  tell  me;  and  the 
Master  too.  I  saw  them  coming  out  of  Chapel  in 
their  surplices,  and  the  Chaplain  with  the  Bishop's 
staff:  but  Branny  wouldn't  let  me  go  to  the  service. 
She  said  I  must  be  tired  after  my  journey.  So  I 
went  to  the  lodge  instead  and  made  friends  with 
Brother  Manby.  I  didn't,"  said  Corona  candidly, 
"make  very  good  weather  with  Brother  Manby, 
just  at  first.  He  began  by  asking  'Well,  and  oo's 
child  might  you  be?' — and  when  I  told  him,  he  said, 
'Ow  's  anyone  to  know  that?'  That  amused  me,  of 
course." 

"Did  it?"  asked  Brother  Copas  in  slight  aston- 
ishment. 

"Because,"  the  child  explained,  "I  'd  been  told 
that  English  people  dropped  their  h's;  but  Brother 
Manby  was  the  first  I  'd  heard  doing  it,  and  it  seemed 
too  good  to  be  true.  You  don't  drop  your  h's;  and 
nor  does  Daddy,  nor  Branny." 

Brother  Copas  chuckled. 

"Don't  reproach  us,"  he  pleaded.  "You  see, 
you  've  taken  us  at  unawares  more  or  less.  But 
if  it  really  please  you — 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Corona  put  in;  "but  I 
guess  that  sort  of  thing  must  come  naturally,  to  be 
any  good.  You  can't  think  how  naturally  Brother 
Manby  went  on  dropping  them;  till  by  and  by  he 
told  me  what  a  mort  of  Americans  came  here  to  have 
74 


GAUDY  DAY 

a  look  around.    Then,  of  course,  I  saw  how  he  must 
strike  them  as  the  real  thing." 

Brother  Copas  under  lowered  eyebrows  regarded 
the  young  face.  It  was  innocent  and  entirely 
serious. 

"So  I  said,"  she  went  on,  "that  I 'came  from 
America  too,  and  it  was  a  long  way,  and  please  would 
he  hurry  up  with  the  bread  and  beer?  After  that 
we  made  friends,  and  I  had  a  good  time." 

"Are  you  telling  me  that  you  spent  the  forenoon 
drinking  beer  in  the  porter's  lodge?" 

Corona's  laugh  was  like  the  bubbling  of  water  in  a 
hidden  well. 

"It  wasn't  what  you  might  call  a  cocktail,"  she 
confided.  "The  tiredest  traveller  wouldn't  ask  for 
crushed  ice  to  it,  not  with  a  solid  William-the- 
Conqueror  wall  to  lean  against." 

Brother  Copas  admitted  that  the  tenuity  of  the 
Wayfarer's  Ale  had  not  always  escaped  the  Way- 
farer's criticism.  He  was  about  to  explain  that,  in  a 
country  of  vested  interests,  publicans  and  teetotallers 
agreed  to  require  that  beer  supplied  gratis  in  the  name 
of  charity  must  be  innocuous  and  unenticing.  But 
at  this  moment  Brother  Manby  signalled  from  his 
lodge  that  the  procession  was  approaching  across  the 
outer  court,  and  he  hurried  away  to  join  the  crowd  of 
Brethren  in  their  scramble  upstairs  to  the  Hundred 
Men's  Hall. 

75 


BROTHER  COPAS 

The  procession  hove  in  sight;  in  number  about  a 
dozen,  walking  two-and-two,  headed  by  Master 
Blanchminster  and  the  Bishop.  Nurse  Branscome 
stepped  across  to  the  child  and  stood  by  her,  whisper- 
ing the  names  of  the  dignitaries  as  they  drew  near. 
The  dear  little  gaitered  white-headed  clergyman — 
the  one  in  the  college  cap — was  the  Master;  the  tall 
one,  likewise  in  gaiters,  the  Bishop. 

" — and  the  gentleman  behind  him  is  Mr.  Yeo,  the 
Mayor  of  Merchester.  In  Chapel  this  morning  he 
wore  his  chain." 

"Why,  is  he  dangerous?"  asked  Corona. 

"  His  chain  of  office,  dear.  It 's  the  rule  in  Eng- 
land." 

"You  don't  say!  .  .  .  Over  in  America  we 've  never 
thought  of  that:  we  let  our  grafters  run  loose.  But 
who  's  the  tall  one  next  to  him?  My!  but  can't  you 
see  him,  Branny,  with  his  long  legs  crossed  ? " 

Branny  was  puzzled. 

" — on  a  tomb,  in  chain  armour,  with  his  hands 
so."  Corona  put  her  two  palms  together,  as  in  the 
act  of  prayer. 

"Oh,  I  see!  Well,  as  it  happens,  his  house  has  a 
private  chapel  with  five  or  six  of  just  those  tombs — 
all  of  his  ancestors.  He  's  Sir  John  Shaftesbury,  and 
he  's  pricked  for  High  Sheriff  next  year.  One  of  the 
oldest  families  in  the  county;  in  all  England,  indeed. 
Everyone  loves  and  respects  Sir  John." 
76 


GAUDY  DAY 

"Didn't  I  say  so!"  The  small  palms  were  pressed 
together  ecstatically.  "And  does  he  keep  a  dwarf, 
same  as  they  used  to?" 

"  Eh  ?  .  .  .  If  you  mean  the  little  man  beside  him, 
with  the  straw-coloured  gloves,  that 's  Mr.  Bam- 
berger;  Mr.  Julius  Bamberger,  our  Member  of  Par- 
liament." 

"Say  that  again,  please." 

The  child  looked  up,  wide-eyed. 

"  He  's  our  Member  of  Parliament  for  Merchester; 
immensely  rich,  they  say." 

"  Well, "  decided  Corona  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"  I  'm  going  to  pretend  he  isn't,  anyway.  I  'm  going 
to  pretend  Sir  John  found  him  and  brought  him 
home  from  Palestine." 

Branny  named,  one  by  one,  the  rest  of  the  Trustees, 
all  persons  of  importance. 

Mr.  Colt  and  the  Bishop's  chaplain  brought  up  the 
rear. 

The  procession  came  to  a  halt.  Old  Warboise  had 
not  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  Brethren,  but  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  and  leaned  there  on  his 
staff.  His  face  was  pale,  his  jaw  set  square  to  per- 
form his  duty.  His  hand  trembled,  though,  as  he 
held  out  a  paper,  accosting  the  Bishop. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  some  of  the  Brethren  desire 
you  as  Visitor  to  read  this  Petition." 

"Hey?"  interrupted  the  Master,  taken  by  sur- 
77 


BROTHER  COPAS 

prise.     "Tut — tut — my  good  Warboise,  what  's  the 
meaning  of  this?" 

"Very  sorry,  Master,"  Brother  Warboise  mum- 
bled: "and  meaning  no  disrespect  to  you,  that  have 
always  ruled  St.  Hospital  like  a  gentleman.  But  a 
party  must  reckon  with  his  conscience." 

The  Bishop  eyed  the  document  dubiously,  holding 
it  between  finger  and  thumb. 

"Some  affair  of  discipline?"  he  asked,  turning  to 
the  Master. 

"  Romanisers,  my  lord — Romanisers :  that 's  what 's 
the  matter!"  answered  Brother  Warboise,  lifting  his 
voice  and  rapping  the  point  of  his  staff  on  the  gravel. 

Good  Master  Blanchminster,  shocked  by  this  ad- 
dress, lifted  his  eyes  beyond  Warboise  and  perceived 
the  womenkind  gathered  around  their  doorways, 
listening.  Nothing  of  the  sort  had  happened  in  all 
his  long  and  beneficent  rule.  He  was  scandalised. 
He  lost  his  temper. 

"Brother  Warboise,"  he  said  severely,  "whatever 
your  grievance — and  I  will  inquire  into  it  later — you 
have  chosen  a  highly  indecorous  and,  er,  offensive 
way  of  obtruding  it.  At  this  moment,  sir,  we  are  go- 
ing together  to  dine  and  to  thank  God  for  many  mer- 
cies vouchsafed  to  us.  If  you  have  any  sense  of  these 
you  will  stand  aside  now  and  follow  us  when  we  have 
passed.  His  lordship  will  read  your  petition  at  a 
more  convenient  opportunity." 
78 


GAUDY  DAY 

"  Quite  so,  my  good  man."  The  Bishop  took  his 
cue  and  pocketed  the  paper,  nodding  shortly.  The 
procession  moved  forward  and  mounted  the  stair- 
case, Brother  Warboise  stumping  after  it  at  a  little 
distance,  scowling  as  he  climbed,  scowling  after  the 
long  back  and  wide  shoulders  of  Mr.  Colt  as  they 
climbed  directly  ahead  of  him. 

Around  their  tables  in  the  Hundred  Men's  Hall  the 
Brethren  were  gathered  expectant. 

"Buzz  for  the  Bishop — here  he  comes  I"  quoted 
Brother  Copas,  and  stood  forth  ready  to  deliver  the 
Latin  grace  as  the  visitors  found  their  places  at  the 
high  table. 

St.  Hospital  used  a  long  Latin  grace  on  holydays; 
"  and/'  Brother  Copas  had  once  observed,  "  the  mar- 
ket-price of  Latinity  in  England  will  ensure  that  we  al- 
ways have  at  least  one  Brother  capable  of  repeating  it." 

"...  Gratias  agimus  pro  Alberico  de  Albo  Mon- 
asterio,  in  fide  defuncto " 

Here  Brother  Copas  paused,  and  the  Brethren 
responded  "Amen!" 

"Ac  pro  Henrico  de  Bello  Campo,  Cardinali." 

As  the  grace  proceeded  Brother  Copas  dwelt  on 
the  broad  vowels  with  gusto. 

"...  Itaque  precamur;    Miserere  nostri,  te  quce- 
sumus  Domine,  tuisque  donis,  quae  de  tud  benignitate 
percepturi  sumus,  benedicto.     Per  Jesum  Christum, 
Dominum  nostrum.     Amen." 
79 


BROTHER  COPAS 

His  eye  wandered  down  to  the  carving-table,  where 
Brother  Biscoe  stood  ready,  as  his  turn  was,  to  direct 
and  apportion  the  helpings.  He  bowed  to  the  digni- 
taries on  the  dais,  and  walked  to  his  place  at  the 
board  next  to  Brother  Warboise. 

"  Old  Biscoe  's  carving,"  he  announced  as  he  took 
his  seat.  "You  and  I  will  have  to  take  a  slice  of 
odium  theologicum  together,  for  auld  lang  syne." 

Sure  enough,  when  his  helping  of  duck  came  to 
him,  it  was  the  back.  Brother  Warboise  received 
another  back  for  his  portion. 

"Courage,  -Brother  Ridley!"  murmured  Copas, 
"you  and  I  this  day  have  raised  a  couple  of  backs 
that  will  not  readily  be  put  down." 

Nurse  Branscome  had  been  surprised  when  Brother 
Warboise  accosted  the  Bishop.  She  could  not  hear 
what  he  said,  but  guessed  that  something  unusual 
was  happening.  A  glance  at  the  two  or  three  groups 
of  women  confirmed  this,  and  when  the  procession 
moved  on,  she  walked  across  to  the  nearest,  taking 
Corona  by  the  hand. 

The  first  she  addressed  happened  to  be  Mrs.  Royle. 

"Whatever  was  Brother  Warboise  doing  just 
now?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Royle  hunched  her  shoulders,  and  turned  to 
Mrs.  Ibbetson. 

"There  's  worse  scandals  in  St.  Hospital,"  said  she 
80 


GAUDY  DAY 

with  a  sniff,  "than  ever  old  Warboise  has  nosed. 
Eh,  ma'am?" 

"One  can  well  believe  that,  Mrs.  Royle,"  agreed 
Mrs.  Ibbetson,  fixing  an  eye  of  disapproval  on  the 
child. 

"And  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  agreed  Nurse  Brans- 
come  candidly;  "though  what  you  mean  is  a  mystery 
to  me." 


81 


CHAPTER  VII 

LOW  AND  HIGH  TABLES 

"THIS,"  said  Brother  Copas  sweetly,  turning  over 
his  portion  of  roast  duck  and  searching  for  some  flesh 
on  it,  "is  not  a  duck  at  all,  but  a  pelican,  bird  of 
wrath.  See,  it  has  devoured  its  own  breast." 

Beside  the  dais,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  Hundred 
Men's  Hall,  an  ancient  staircase  leads  to  an  upper 
chamber  of  which  we  shall  presently  speak;  and  on 
the  newel-post  of  this  staircase  stands  one  of  the 
curiosities  of  St.  Hospital — a  pelican  carved  in  oak, 
vulning  its  breast  to  feed  its  young.  Brother  Copas, 
lifting  a  pensive  eye  from  his  plate,  rested  it  on 
this  bird,  as  though  comparing  notes. 

"The  plague  take  your  double  meanings!"  an- 
swered Brother  Warboise  gruffly.  "Not  that  I 
understand  'em,  or  want  to.  'Tis  enough,  I  suppose, 
that  the  Master  preached  about  it  this  morning,  and 
called  it  the  bird  of  love,  to  set  you  miscalling  it." 

"Not  a  bit,"  Brother  Copas  replied.  "As  for  the 
parable  of  the  Pelican,  the  Master  has  used  it  in 
half  a  dozen  sermons;  and  you  had  it  by  heart  at 
82 


LOW  AND  HIGH  TABLES 

least  as  long  ago  as  the  day  before  yesterday,  when  I 
happened  to  overhear  you  pitching  it  to  a  convoy  of 
visitors  as  you  showed  them  the  staircase.  I  hope 
they  rewarded  you  for  the  sentiment  of  it." 

"Look  here,"  fired  up  Brother  Warboise,  turning 
over  his  portion  of  duck,  "if  it 's  poor  I  am,  it  don't 
become  you  to  mock  me.  And  if  I  haven't  your 
damned  book-learning,  nor  half  your  damned  clever- 
ness, maybe  you  've  not  turned  either  to  such  account 
in  life  as  to  make  a  boast  of  it.  And  if  you  left  me 
just  now  to  stand  up  alone  to  the  Master,  it  don't 
follow  I  take  pleasure  in  your  sneering  at  him." 

"You  are  right,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Brother 
Copas;  "and  also  you  are  proving  in  two  or  three 
different  ways  that  I  was  right  just  now.  Bird  of 
love — bird  of  wrath — they  are  both  the  same  thing. 
But,  with  all  submission,  neither  you  nor  the  Mas- 
ter have  the  true  parable,  which  I  found  by  chance 
the  other  day  in  an  old  book  called  the  Ancren 
Riwle.  Ancren,  brother,  means '  anchoresses/  recluses, 
women  separated,  and  living  apart  from  the  world 
pretty  much  as  by  rights  we  men  should  be  living 
in  St.  Hospital;  and  riwle  is  'rule/  or  an  instruction 
of  daily  conduct.  It  is  a  sound  old  book,  written 
in  the  thirteenth  century  by  a  certain  good  Bishop 
Poore  (excellent  name!)  for  a  household  of  such  good 
women  at  Tarrent,  on  the  River  Stour;  and  it  con- 
tains a  peck  of  counsel  which  might  be  preached  not 
83 


BROTHER  COPAS 

only  upon  the  scandal-mongering  women  who  are  the 
curse  of  this  place — yes,  and  applied;  for  it  recom- 
mends here  and  there,  a  whipping  as  salutary — but 
even,  mutatis  mutandis,  upon  us  Brethren — 

"We've  had  one  sermon,  to-day,"  growled  Brother 
Warboise. 

"  I  am  correcting  it.  This  book  tells  of  the  Pelican 
that  she  is  a  peevish  bird  and  so  hasty  of  temper  that, 
when  her  young  ones  molest  her,  she  kills  them  with 
her  beak;  and  soon  after,  being  sorry,  she  moans, 
smites  her  own  breast  with  the  same  murderous  beak, 
and  so  draws  blood,  with  which  (says  the  Bishop) 
'she  then  quickeneth  her  slain  birds.'  But  I,  being 
no  believer  in  miracles,  think  he  is  right  as  to  the 
repentance  but  errs  about  the  bringing  back  to  life. 
In  this  world,  Brother,  that  doesn't  happen;  and  we 
poor  angry  devils  are  left  wishing  that  it  could." 

Brother  Warboise,  playing  with  knife  and  fork, 
looked  up  sharply  from  under  fierce  eyebrows. 

"The  moral?"  pursued  Brother  Copas.  "There 
are  two  at  least:  the  first,  that  here  we  are,  two 
jolly  Protestants,  who  might  be  as  comfortable  as 
rats  in  a  cheese — you  conscious  of  a  duty  performed, 
and  I  filled  with  admiration  of  your  pluck — and  lo! 
when  old  Biscoe  annoys  us  by  an  act  of  petty  spite, 
we  turn,  not  on  him,  but  on  one  another.  You, 
already  more  angry  with  yourself  than  with  Biscoe, 
suddenly  take  offence  with  me  because  I  didn't  join 
84 


LOW  AND  HIGH  TABLES 

you  in  standing  between  a  good  man  and  his  dinner; 
while  I,  with  a  spoilt  meal  of  my  own  for  a  grievance, 
choose  to  feel  an  irrational  concern  for  the  Master's, 
turn  round  on  my  comrade  who  has  spoilt  that,  and 
ask,  What  the  devil  is  wrong  within  Protestantism, 
that  it  has  never  an  ounce  of  tact?  Or  why,  if  it 
aims  to  be  unworldly,  must  it  always  overshoot  its 
mark  and  be  merely  inhuman?" 

Brother  Warboise  put  nine-tenths  of  this  discourse 
aside. 

"You  think  it  has  spoilt  the  Master's  dinner?" 
he  asked  anxiously,  with  a  glance  towards  the  high 
table. 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  Brother  Copas  assured  him. 
"  Look  at  the  old  boy,  how  nervously  he  's  playing 
with  his  bread." 

"  I  never  meant,  you  know " 

"No,  of  course  you  didn't;  and  there  's  my  second 
moral  of  the  Pelican.  She  digs  a  bill  into  her  dearest, 
and  then  she  's  sorry.  At  the  best  of  her  argument 
she  's  always  owing  her  opponent  an  apology  for  some 
offence  against  manners.  She  has  no  savoir-faire." 
Here  Brother  Copas,  relapsing,  let  the  cloud  of  specu- 
lation drift  between  him  and  Brother  Warboise's 
remorse.  "Quod  semper,  quod  ubique,  quod  ab 
omnibus — I  reverence  the  pluck  of  a  man  who  can 
cut  himself  loose  from  all  that;  for  the  worst  loss  he 
has  to  face  (if  he  only  knew  it)  is  the  inevitable  loss 
85 


BROTHER  COPAS 

of  breeding.  For  the  ordinary  gentleman  in  this 
world  there  *s  either  Catholicism  or  sound  Paganism; 
no  third  choice." 

In  truth  Master  Blanchminster's  dinner  was  spoilt 
for  him.  He  sat  distraught,  fingering  his  bread  be- 
tween the  courses  which  he  scarcely  tasted,  and  giv- 
ing answers  at  random,  after  pauses,  to  the  Bishop's 
small-talk.  He  was  wounded.  He  had  lived  for 
years  a  life  as  happy  as  any  that  can  fall  to  the 
lot  of  an  indolent,  unambitious  man,  who  loves  his 
fellows  and  takes  a  delight  in  their  gratitude.  St. 
Hospital  exactly  suited  him.  He  knew  its  history. 
His  affection,  like  an  ivy,  clung  about  its  old  walls 
and  incorporated  itself  in  the  very  mortar  that  bound 
them.  He  loved  to  spy  one  of  its  Brethren  approach- 
ing in  the  street;  to  anticipate  and  acknowledge  the 
deferential  salute;  to  see  himself  as  father  of  a  happy 
family,  easily  controlling  it  by  goodwill,  in  the  right 
of  good  birth. 

He  had  been  a  reformer  too.  The  staircase  beside 
the  dais  led  to  an  upper  chamber  whence,  through  a 
small  window  pierced  in  the  wall,  former  Masters  had 
conceived  it  their  duty  to  observe  the  behaviour  of 
the  Brethren  at  meals.  In  his  sixth  year  of  office 
Master  Blanchminster  had  sent  for  masons  to  block 
this  window  up.  The  act  of  espial  had  always  been 
hateful  to  him:  he  preferred  to  trust  his  Brethren, 


LOW  AND   HIGH  TABLES 

and  it  cost  far  less  trouble.  For  close  upon  thirty 
years  he  had  avoided  their  dinner-hour  on  all  but 
Gaudy-days. 

He  had  been  warming  a  serpent,  and  it  had  bitten 
him.  The  wound  stung,  too.  Angry  he  was  at 
Warboise's  disloyalty;  angrier  at  the  manner  of  it. 
If  these  old  men  had  a  grievance,  or  believed  they 
had,  at  least  they  might  have  trusted  him  first  with 
it.  Had  he  ever  been  tyrannical,  harsh,  unsym- 
pathetic even,  that  instead  of  coming  to  him  as  to 
their  father  and  Master  they  should  have  put  this 
public  affront  on  him  and  appealed  straight-a-way  to 
the  Bishop?  To  be  sure  the  Statutes  provided  that 
the  Bishop  of  Merchester,  as  Visitor,  had  power  to 
inquire  into  the  administration  of  St.  Hospital  and 
to  remedy  abuses.  But  everyone  knew  that  within 
living  memory,  and  for  a  hundred  years  before,  this 
power  had  never  been  invoked.  Doubtless  these 
malcontents,  whoever  they  might  be — and  it  dis- 
quieted Master  Blanchminster  yet  further  that  he 
could  not  guess  as  yet  who  they  were  or  how  many — 
had  kept  to  the  letter  of  their  rights.  But  good 
Heaven!  had  he  in  all  these  years  interpreted  his 
rule  by  the  letter,  and  not  rather  and  constantly  by 
the  spirit? 

Brother  Copas  was  right.  Warboise's  action  had 
been  inopportune,  offensive,  needlessly  hurting  a 
kindly  heart.  But  the  Master,  while  indignant  with 
87 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Warboise,  could  not  help  feeling  just  a  reflex  touch  of 
vexation  with  Mr.  Colt.  The  Chaplain  no  doubt  was 
a  stalwart  soldier,  fighting  the  Church's  battle;  but 
her  battle  was  not  to  be  won,  her  rolling  tide  of  con- 
quest not  to  be  set  going,  in  such  a  backwater  as  St. 
Hospital.  Confound  the  fellow!  Why  could  not  these 
young  men  leave  old  men  alone? 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  Master,  immersed  in 
painful  thoughts,  missed  the  launching  of  the  Great 
Idea,  which  was  to  trouble  him  and  indeed  all  Mer- 
chester  until  Merchester  had  done  with  it. 

The  idea  was  Mr.  Bamberger's. 

("Why,  of  course  it  was,"  said  Brother  Copas 
later;  "ideas,  good  and  bad,  are  the  mission  of  his 
race  among  the  Gentiles.") 

Mr.  Bamberger,  having  taken  his  seat,  tucked  a 
corner  of  his  dinner-napkin  between  his  collar  and  the 
front  of  his  hairy  throat.  Adaptable  in  most  things, 
in  feeding  and  in  the  conduct  of  a  napkin  he  could 
never  subdue  old  habit  to  our  English  custom,  and 
to-day,  moreover,  he  wore  a  large  white  waistcoat, 
which  needed  protection.  This  seen  to,  he  gazed 
around  expansively. 

"A  picture,  by  George!" — Mr.  Bamberger  ever 
swore  by  our  English  patron  saint.  "Slap  out  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  priceless." 

(He  actually  said  "thlap"  and  "pritheless,"  but 


LOW  AND   HIGH  TABLES 

I  resign  at  the  outset  any  attempt  to  spell  as  Mr. 
Bamberger  pronounced.) 

" — Authentic,  too!  To  think  of  this  sort  of  thing 
taking  place  to-day  in  Merchester,  England's  ancient 
capital.  Eh,  Master?  Eh,  Mr.  Mayor?" 

Master  Blanchminster  awoke  so  far  out  of  his 
thoughts  as  to  correct  the  idiom. 

"Undoubtedly  Merchester  was  the  capital  of  Eng- 
land before  London  could  claim  that  honour. " 

"Aye,"  agreed  his  Worship,  "there  's  no  end  of 
antikities  in  Merchester,  for  them  as  takes  an  interest 
in  such.  Dead-and-alive  you  may  call  us;  but,  as 
I'  ve  told  the  Council  more  than  once,  they  're  links 
with  the  past  in  a  manner  of  speaking." 

"  But  these  antiquities  attract  visitors,  or  ought  to. " 

"They  do:  a  goodish  number,  as  I've  told  the 
Council  more  than  once." 

"Why  shouldn't  they  attract  more?" 

"I  suppose  they  would,  if  we  had  more  of  'em," 
answered  his  Worship  thoughtfully.  "When  I  said 
just  now  that  we  had  no  end  of  antikities,  it  was  in 
a  manner  of  speaking.  There  's  the  Cathedral,  of 
course,  and  the  old  Palace — or  what  's  left  of  it,  and 
St.  Hospital  here.  But  there  's  a  deal  been  swept 
away  within  my  recollection.  We  must  move  with 
the  times." 

At  this  point  the  inspiration  came  upon  Mr. 
Bamberger.  He  laid  down  the  spoon  in  his  soup 
89 


BROTHER  COPAS 

and  hurriedly  caught  at  the  rim  of  his  plate  as  a 
vigilant  waiter  swept  a  hand  to  remove  it. 

"Hold  hard,  young  man!"  said  Mr.  Bamberger, 
snatching  at  his  spoon  and  again  fixing  his  eye  on 
the  Mayor.  "  You  ought  to  have  a  Pageant,  Sir." 

"A  what?" 

"A  Pageant;  that  's  what  we  want  for  Merchester 
— something  to  advertise  the  dear  old  place  and  bring 
grist  to  our  mills.  I  've  often  wondered  if  we  could 
not  run  something  of  the  sort." 

This  was  not  a  conscious  falsehood,  but  just  a  word 
or  two  of  political  patter,  dropped  automatically, 
absently.  In  truth,  Mr.  Bamberger,  possessed  by  his 
inspiration,  was  wondering  why  the  deuce  it  had 
never  occurred  to  him  until  this  moment.  Still  more 
curious,  too,  that  it  had  never  occurred  to  his  brother 
Isidore!  This  Isidore,  after  starting  as  a  croupier 
at  Ostend  and  pushing  on  to  the  post  of  Dircctcur 
des  Fetes  Periodiqucs  to  the  municipality  of  that 
watering-place,  had  made  a  sudden  name  for  himself 
by  stage-managing  a  Hall  of  Odalisques  at  the  last 
Paris  Exposition,  and  crossing  to  London,  had 
accumulated  laurels  by  directing  popular  entertain- 
ments at  Olympia  (Kensington)  and  Shepherd's 
Bush.  One  great  daily  newspaper,  under  Hebrew 
control,  habitually  alluded  to  him  as  the  Prince  of 
Pageantists.  Isidore  saw  things  on  a  grand  scale, 
and  was,  moreover,  an  excellent  brother.  Isidore 
90 


LOW  AND   HIGH  TABLES 

(said  Mr.  Julius  Bamberger  to  himself)  would  find  all 
the  History  of  England  in  Merchester  and  rattle  it 
up  to  the  tune  of  music. 

Aloud  he  said — 

"This  very  scene  we  're  looking  on,  f'r  instance!" 

"There  would  be  difficulties  in  the  way  of  pre- 
senting it  in  the  open  air,"  hazarded  his  Worship. 

Mr.  Bamberger,  never  impatient  of  stupidity, 
opined  that  this  could  be  got  over  easily. 

"There  's  all  the  material  made  to  our  hand.  Eh, 
Master? — these  old  pensioners  of  yours — in  a  pro- 
cession? The  public  is  always  sentimental." 

Master  Blanchminster,  rousing  himself  out  of 
reverie,  made  guarded  answer  that  such  an  exhibi- 
tion might  be  instructive,  historically,  for  school- 
children. 

"An  institution  like  this,  supported  by  endow- 
ments, don't  need  advertising,  of  course — not  for  its 
own  sake,"  said  Mr.  Bamberger.  "I  was  thinking 
of  what  might  be  done  indirectly  for  Merchester. 
But — you  '11  excuse  me,  I  must  ride  a  notion  when  I 
get  astride  of  one — St.  Hospital  would  be  no  more 
than  what  we  call  an  episode.  WTe  'd  start  with 
Alfred  the  Great — maybe  before  him;  work  down  to 
the  Cathedral  and  its  consecration  and  Sir  John, 
here, — that  is,  of  course,  his  ancestor — swearing  on 
the  Cross  to  depart  for  Jerusalem." 

Sir  John — a  Whig  by  five  generations  of  descent — 
91 


BROTHER  COPAS 

glanced  at  Mr.  Bamberger  uneasily.  He  had  turned 
Unionist  when  Mr.  Gladstone  embraced  Home  Rule; 
and  now,  rather  by  force  of  circumstance  than  by 
choice,  he  found  himself  Chairman  of  the  Unionist 
Committee  for  Merchester;  in  fact  he,  more  than  any 
man,  was  responsible  for  Mr.  Bamberger's  represent- 
ing Merchester  in  Parliament,  and  sometimes  won- 
dered how  it  had  all  come  about.  He  answered  these 
rare  questionings  by  telling  himself  that  Disraeli, 
whose  portrait  hung  in  his  library,  had  also  been  a 
Jew.  But  he  did  not  quite  understand  it,  or  what 
there  was  in  Mr.  Bamberger  that  personally  repelled 
him. 

At  any  rate  Sir  John  was  pure  Whig  and  to  your 
pure  Whig  personal  dignity  is  everything. 

"So  long,"  murmured  he,  "as  you  don't  ask  me 
to  dress  up  and  make  myself  a  figure  of  fun." 

The  Bishop  had  already  put  the  suggestion,  so 
far  as  it  concerned  him,  aside  with  a  tolerant  smile, 
which  encouraged  everything  from  which  he,  bien 
entendu,  was  omitted. 

Mr.  Bamberger,  scanning  the  line  of  faces  with  a 
Jew's  patient  cunning,  at  length  encountered  the  eye 
of  Mr.  Colt,  who  at  the  farther  end  of  the  high  table 
was  leaning  forward  to  listen. 

"You're  my  man,"  thought  Mr.  Bamberger. 
"  Though  I  don't  know  your  name  and  maybe  you  're 
socially  no  great  shakes;  a  chaplain  by  your  look, 
92 


LOW  AND   HIGH  TABLES 
and  High  Church.     You  're  the  useful  one  in  this 
gang." 

He  lifted  his  voice. 

"You  won't  misunderstand  me,  Master,"  he  said. 
"I  named  the  Cathedral  and  the  Crusades  because, 
in  Merchester,  history  cannot  get  away  from  the 
Church.  It  's  her  history  that  any  pageant  of  Mer- 
chester ought  to  illustrate  primarily — must,  indeed: 
her  past  glories,  some  day  (please  God)  to  be  revived." 

"And,"  said  Mr.  Bamberger  some  months  later, 
in  private  converse  with  his  brother  Isidore,  "that 
did  it,  though  I  say  it  who  shouldn't.  I  froze  on 
that  Colt  straight;  and  Colt, you  '11  allow,  was  trumps." 

For  the  moment  little  more  was  said.  The  com- 
pany at  the  high  table,  after  grace — a  shorter  one 
this  time,  pronounced  by  the  Chaplain — bowed  to 
the  Brethren  and  followed  the  Master  upstairs  to 
the  little  room  which  had  once  served  for  espial- 
chamber,  but  was  now  curtained  cosily  and  spread 
for  dessert. 

"By  the  way,  Master,"  said  the  Bishop,  suddenly 
remembering  the  Petition  in  his  pocket,  and  laughing 
amicably  as  he  dropped  a  lump  of  sugar  into  his 
coffee,  "what  games  have  you  been  playing  in  St. 
Hospital,  that  they  accuse  you  of  Romanising?" 

The  Master's  ivory  face  flushed  at  the  question. 

"That  was  old  Warboise,"  he  answered  nervously. 
"I  must  apologise  for  the  annoyance." 
93 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all!  It  amused  me,  rather, 
to  be  reminded  that,  as  Visitor,  I  am  a  person  in 
St.  Hospital,  and  still  reckoned  an  important  one. 
Made  me  feel  like  an  image  in  a  niche  subjected  to  a 
sudden  dusting.  Who  is  this — er,  what-d'ye-call- 
him?  Warboise?  An  eccentric?" 

"I  will  not  say  that.  Old  and  opinionated,  rather; 
a  militant  Protestant " 

"Ah,  we  know  the  sort.  Shall  we  glance  over  his 
screed?  You  permit  me?" 

"I  was  about  to  suggest  your  doing  so.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  am  curious  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
charge  against  me." 

The  Bishop  smiled,  drew  forth  the  paper  from  his 
pocket,  adjusted  his  gold-rimmed  eyeglasses  and 
read — 

"To  the  Right  Rev.  Father  in  God,  Walter,  Lord 
Bishop  of  Merchester. 

"My  Lord, — We  the  undersigned,  being  Brethren 
on  the  Blanchminster  and  Beauchamp  foundations  of 
St.  Hospital's  College  of  Noble  Poverty  by  Mcrton, 
respectfully  desire  your  lordship's  attention  to  certain 
abuses  which  of  late  have  crept  into  this  Society;  and 
particularly  in  the  observances  of  religion. 

"We  contend  (1)  that,  whereas  our  Reformed  and 
Protestant  Church,  in  Number  XXII  of  her  Articles 
of  Religion  declares  the  Romish  doctrine  of  purgatory 
94 


LOW  AND  HIGH  TABLES 

inter  alia  to  be  a  fond  thing  vainly  invented,  etc.,  and 
repugnant  to  the  Word  of  God,  yet  prayers  for  the 
dead  have  twice  been  publicly  offered  in  our  Chapel 
and  the  practice  defended,  nay  recommended,  from  its 
pulpit. 

"(2)  That,  whereas  in  Number  XXVIII  of  the 
same  Articles  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  is 
defined  in  intention,  and  tlie  definition  expressly 
cleared  to  repudiate  several  practices  not  consonant 
with  it,  certain  of  these  have  been  observed  of  late  in  our 
Chapel,  to  the  scandal  of  the  Church,  and  to  the  pain 
and  uneasiness  of  souls  that  were  used  to  draw  pure 
refreshment  from  these  Sacraments " 

The  Bishop  paused. 

"I  say,  Master,  this  Brother  Warboise  of  yours 
can  write  passable  English." 

"  Warboise  ?  Warboise  never  wrote  that — never  in 
his  life." 

Master  Blanchminster  passed  a  hand  over  his 
forehead. 

"It  's  Copas's  handwriting!"  announced  Mr.  Colt, 
who  had  drawn  close  and,  unpermitted,  was  staring 
over  the  Bishop's  shoulder  at  the  manuscript. 

The  Bishop  turned  half  about  in  his  chair,  slightly 
affronted  by  this  offence  against  good  breeding;  but 
Mr.  Colt  was  too  far  excited  to  guess  the  rebuke. 

"Turn  over  the  page,  my  lord." 
95 


BROTHER  COPAS 

As  the  Bishop  turned  it,  on  the  impulse  of  surprise, 
Mr.  Colt  pointed  ,a  forefinger. 

"There  it  is — half-way  down  the  signatures!  'J. 
Copas,'  written  in  the  same  hand!" 


96 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  PEACE-OFFERING 

"'FEE,  favv,  fum!  bubble  and  squeak! 

Blessedest  Thursday  's  the  fat  of  the  week!'" 

quoted  Brother  Copas  from  one  of  his  favourite 
poems.  This  was  in  the  kitchen,  three  days  later, 
and  he  made  one  of  the  crowd  edging,  pushing, 
pressing,  each  with  plate  in  hand,  around  the  great 
table  where  the  joints  stood  ready  to  be  carved  and 
distributed.  For  save  on  Gaudy-days  and  great  festi- 
vals of  the  Church,  the  Brethren  dine  in  their  own 
chambers,  not  in  Hall;  and  on  three  days  of  the  week 
must  fend  for  themselves  on  food  purchased  out 
of  their  small  allowances.  But  on  Mondays,  Tues- 
days, Thursdays  and  Saturdays  they  fetch  it  from  the 
kitchen,  taking  their  turns  to  choose  the  best  cuts. 
And  this  was  Thursday  and,  as  it  happened,  Brother 
Copas  stood  first  on  the  rota. 

The  rota  hung  on  the  kitchen  wall  in  a  frame  of 

oak  canopied  with  faded  velvet — an  ingenious  and 

puzzling   contrivance,    somewhat   like    the    calendar 

prefixed  to  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  with  the 

97 


BROTHER  COPAS 

names  of  the  Brethren  inserted  on  movable  cards 
worn  greasy  with  handling.  In  system  nothing 
could  be  fairer;  but  in  practice,  human  nature  being 
what  it  is,  and  the  crowd  without  discipline,  the 
press  and  clamour  about  the  table  made  choosing 
difficult  for  the  weaker  ones. 

"  Brother  Copas  to  choose!  Brother  Clerihew  to 
divide!" 

"Aye,"  sang  out  Brother  Copas  cheerfully,  "and 
I  '11  take  my  time  about  it.  Make  room,  Woolcombe, 
if  you  please,  and  take  your  elbow  out  of  my  ribs — 
don't  I  know  the  old  trick?  And  stop  pushing — 
you  behind  there!  .  .  .  'Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine 
in  a  sty,  wasps  in  a  bottle' — Mrs.  Royle,  ma'am,  I 
am  very  sorry  for  your  husband's  rheumatism,  but 
it  does  not  become  a  lady  to  show  this  indecent 
haste." 

"  Indecent  ?  "  shrilled  Mrs.  Royle.  "  Indecent,  you 
call  me? — you  that  pretend  to  ha'  been  a  gentleman! 
I  reckon,  if  indecency  's  the  matter  in  these  times, 
I  could  talk  to  one  or  two  of  ye  about  it." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  that,  ma'am.  .  .  .  But  really  you 
ladies  have  no  right  here:  it 's  clean  against  the  rules, 
and  the  hubbub  you  provoke  is  a  scandal." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  sir — 

"With  your  leave,  ma'am,  I  mean  to  insinuate 
myself  between  your  skirts  and  the  table  from  which 
at  this  moment  you  debar  me.  Ah!"  exclaimed 


A  PEACE-OFFERING 

Brother  Copas  as  the  cook  whipped  off  the  first 
of  the  great  dish  covers,  letting  loose  a  cloud  of 
savoury  steam.  He  sniffed  at  it. 

"  What  's  this  ?  Boiled  pork,  and  in  June!  We  '11 
have  a  look  at  the  others,  please.  .  .  .  Roast  leg  of 
mutton,  boiled  neck  and  scrag  of  mutton — aha!  You 
shall  give  me  a  cut  of  the  roast,  please;  and  start  at 
the  knuckle  end.  Yes,  Biscoe — at  the  knuckle  end." 

Hate  distorted  Brother  Biscoe's  patriarchal  face. 
He  came  second  on  the  rota,  and  roast  knuckle  of 
mutton  was  the  tit-bit  dearest  of  all  to  his  heart,  as 
Brother  Copas  knew.  Brother  Biscoe  also  had  a 
passion  for  the  two  first  cutlets  of  a  mutton-neck; 
but  he  thought  nothing  of  this  in  his  rage. 

"Please  God  it  '11  choke  ye!"  he  snarled. 

"Dear  Brother,"  said  Copas  amiably,  "on  Monday 
last  you  helped  me  to  the  back  of  a  duck." 

"Hurry  up  there!"  shouted  Brother  Woolcombe, 
and  swung  round.  "Are  we  all  to  get  cold  dinner 
when  these  two  old  fools  have  done  wrangling?" 

"Fool  yourself,  Woolcombe!"  Brother  Biscoe  like- 
wise swung  about.  "  Here  's  Copas  has  brought  two 
plates!  Isn't  it  time  to  speak  up,  when  a  rogue  's 
caught  cheating?" 

One  or  two  cried  out  that  he  ought  to  lose  his  turn 
for  it. 

"My  friends,"  said  Brother  Copas,  not  at  all  per- 
turbed, "the  second  plate  is  for  Brother  Bonaday's 
99 


BROTHER  COPAS 

dinner,  when  his  turn  arrives.  He  has  a  heart-attack 
to-day,  and  cannot  come  for  himself." 

"A  heart-Sittackl"  sniggered  Mrs.  Royle,  her  voice 
rising  shrill  above  the  din.  "  Oh,  save  us  if  we  didn't 
all  know  that  news!" 

Laughter  crackled  like  musketry  about  Brother 
Copas's  ears,  laughter  to  him  quite  meaningless.  It 
was  plain  that  all  shared  some  joke  against  his  friend 
Bonaday;  but  he  had  no  clue. 

"And,"  pursued  Mrs.  Royle,  "here  's  his  best 
friend  tellin'  us  as  'tis  a  scandal  the  way  women  push 
themselves  into  St.  Hospital — 'when  they  're  not 
wanted,'  did  I  hear  you  say,  sir?  Yes,  'a  scandal' 
he  said,  and  'indecent';  which  I  leave  it  to  you  is 
pretty  strong  language  as  addressed  to  a  woman 
what  has  her  marriage  lines  I  should  hope!" 

Brother  Copas,  bewildered  by  this  onslaught — or, 
as  he  put  it  later,  comparing  the  encounter  with  that 
between  Socrates  and  Gorgias  the  Sophist — drenched 
with  that  woman's  slop-pail  of  words  and  blinded  for 
the  moment,  received  his  portion  of  mutton  and  drew 
aside,  vanquished  amid  peals  of  laughter,  of  which 
he  guessed  only  from  its  note  that  the  allusion  had 
been  disgusting.  Indeed,  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  kitchen  sickened  him;  even  the  portion  of  mut- 
ton cooling  on  his  plate  raised  his  gorge  in  physical 
loathing.  But  Brother  Bonaday  lay  helpless  in  his 
chamber,  without  food.  Remembering  this,  Brother 
100 


A  PEACE-OFFERING 

Copas  stood  his  ground  and  waited,  with  the  spare 
plate  ready  for  the  invalid's  portion. 

The  babel  went  on  as  one  after  another  fought  for 
the  spoil.  They  had  forgotten  him,  and  those  at  the 
back  of  the  crowd  had  found  a  new  diversion  in 
hustling  old  Biscoe  as  he  struggled  to  get  away  with 
his  two  cutlets  of  half- warm  mutton. 

Brother  Copas  held  his  gaze  upon  the  joints.  His 
friend's  turn  came  all  but  last  on  the  rota;  and  by 
perversity — but  who  could  blame  it,  in  the  month  of 
June? — everyone  eschewed  the  pork  and  bid  emu- 
lously  for  the  mutton,  roast  or  boiled.  He  knew  that 
Brother  Bonaday  abhorred  pork,  which,  moreover, 
was  indigestible,  and  by  consequence  bad  for  a  weak 
heart.  He  stood  and  watched,  gradually  losing  all 
hope  except  to  capture  a  portion  of  the  mutton  near 
the  scrag-end.  As  for  the  leg,  it  had  speedily  been 

cleaned  to  the  bone. 

i 

At  the  last  moment  a  ray  of  hope  shot  up,  as  an 
expiring  candle  flames  in  the  socket.  Brother  Inch- 
bald — a  notoriously  stingy  man — whose  turn  came 
immediately  before  Brother  Bonaday's,  seemed  to 
doubt  that  enough  of  the  scrag  remained  to  eke  out 
a  full  portion;  and  bent  towards  the  dish  of  pork, 
fingering  his  chin.  Copas  seized  the  moment  to  push 
his  empty  plate  towards  the  mutton,  stealthily,  as 
one  forces  a  card. 

As  he  did  so,  another  roar  of  laughter — coarser 
101 


BROTHER  COPAS 

than  before — drew  him  to  glance  over  his  shoulder. 
The  cause  of  it  was  Nurse  Branscome,  entering  by 
way  of  the  refectory,  with  a  hot  plate  held  in  a 
napkin  between  her  hands. 

She  paused  on  the  threshold,  as  though  the  rib- 
aldry took  her  in  the  face  like  a  blast  of  hot  wind. 

"Oh,  I  am  late!"  she  cried.  "I  came  to  fetch 
Brother  Bonaday's  dinner.  Until  five  minutes  ago 
no  one  told  me " 

"It  's  all  right,"  called  back  Brother  Copas,  still 
looking  over  his  shoulder  while  his  right  hand  ex- 
tended the  plate. 

"  His  turn  is  just  called,  and  I  am  getting  it  for  him. " 

Strange  to  say,  his  voice  reached  the  Nurse  across 
an  almost  dead  silence;  for  the  laughter  had  died 
down  at  sight  of  a  child — Corona — beside  her  in  the 
doorway. 

"  But  your  plate  will  be  cold.  Here,  change  it  for 
mine!" 

"Well  thought  upon!     Wait  a  second!" 

But  before  Brother  Copas  could  withdraw  the  plate 
a  dollop  of  meat  had  been  dumped  upon  it. 

"Eh?  but  wait— look  here! " 

He  turned  about,  stared  at  the  plate,  stared  from 
the  plate  to  the  dish  of  scrag.  The  meat  on  the  plate 
was  pork,  and  the  dish  of  scrag  was  empty.  Brother 
Inchbald  had  changed  his  mind  at  the  last  moment 
and  chosen  mutton. 

102 


A  PEACE-OFFERING 

The  Brethren,  led  by  Mrs.  Royle,  cackled  again  at 
sight  of  his  dismay.  One  or  two  still  hustled  Brother 
Biscoe  as  he  fought  his  way  to  the  foot  of  the  refectory 
steps,  at  the  head  of  which  Nurse  Branscome  barred 
the  exit,  with  Corona  holding  fast  by  her  hand  and 
wondering. 

"But  what  is  it  all  about?"  asked  the  child. 

"Hush!"  The  Nurse  squeezed  her  hand,  mean- 
ing that  she  must  have  courage.  "We  have  come 
too  late,  and  the  dinner  is  all  shared  up — or  all  of 
it  that  would  do  your  father  good." 

"But" — Corona  dragged  her  small  hand  loose — 
"there  is  plenty  left;  and  when  they  know  he  is  sick 
they  will  make  it  all  right.  ...  If  you  please,  sir," 
she  spoke  up,  planting  her  small  body  in  front  of 
Brother  Biscoe  as  he  would  have  pushed  past  with 
his  plate,  "  my  father  is  sick,  and  Nurse  says  he  must 
not  eat  the  meat  that 's  left  on  the  dish  there.  Won't 
you  give  me  that  on  your  plate?" 

She  stretched  out  a  hand  for  it,  and  Brother  Biscoe, 
spent  with  senile  wrath  at  this  last  interruption  of  his 
escape,  was  snatching  back  the  food,  ready  to  curse 
her,  when  Brother  Copas  came  battling  through  the 
press,  holding  both  his  plates  high  and  hailing 
cheerfully. 

"I  forgot,"  he  panted,  and  held  up  the  plate  in  his 
left  hand.  "  Bonaday  can  have  the  knuckle.  I  had 
first  choice  to-day." 

103 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"He  ought  not  to  eat  roasted  meat,"  said  Nurse 
Branscome  slowly.  "  I  am  sorry.  You  are  good  and 
will  be  disappointed.  The  smallest  bit  of  boiled, 
now — were  it  only  the  scrag — 

"Why,"  bustled  Brother  Copas,  "Brother  Biscoe 
has  the  very  thing,  then — the  two  best  cutlets  at  the 
bottom  of  the  neck.  And,  what 's  more,  he'll  be  only 
too  glad  to  exchange  'em  for  the  roast  knuckle  here, 
as  I  happen  to  know." 

He  thrust  the  tit-bit  upon  Brother  Biscoe,  who 
hesitated  a  moment  between  hate  and  greed,  and 
snatched  the  cutlets  from  him  before  hate  could  weigh 
down  the  balance. 

Brother  Biscoe,  clutching  the  transferred  plate, 
fled  ungraciously,  without  a  word  of  thanks.  Nurse 
Branscome  stayed  but  a  moment  to  thank  Brother 
Copas  for  his  cleverness,  and  hurried  off  with  Corona 
to  hot-up  the  plate  of  mutton  for  the  invalid. 

They  left  Brother  Copas  eyeing  his  dismal  pork. 

"And  in  June,  too!"  he  murmured.  "No:  a  man 
must  protect  himself.  I  '11  have  to  eke  out  to-day  on 
biscuits." 


104 


CHAPTER  IX 

BY   MERE    RIVER 

BROTHER  BONADAY'S  heart-attacks,  sharp  while  they 
lasted,  were  soon  over.  Towards  evening  he  had  so 
far  recovered  that  the  Nurse  saw  no  harm  in  his 
taking  a  short  stroll,  with  Brother  Copas  for  socius. 

The  two  old  men  made  their  way  down  to  the  river 
as  usual,  and  there  Brother  Copas  forced  his  friend 
to  sit  and  rest  on  a  bench  beside  the  clear-running 
water. 

"We  had  better  not  talk,"  he  suggested,  "but  just 
sit  quiet  and  let  the  fresh  air  do  you  good." 

"But  I  wish  to  talk.     I  am  quite  strong  enough." 

"Talk  about  what?" 

"About  the  child.  .  .  .  We  must  be  getting  her 
educated,  I  suppose." 

"Why?" 

Brother  Bonaday,  seated  with  palms  crossed  over 
the  head  of  his  staff,  gazed  in  an  absent-minded  way 
at  the  water-weeds  trailing  in  the  current. 

"  She's  an  odd  child ;  curiously  shrewd  in  some  ways 
and  curiously  innocent  in  others,  and  for  ever  asking 
105 


BROTHER  COPAS 

questions.  She  put  me  a  teaser  yesterday.  She  can 
read  pretty  well,  and  I  set  her  to  read  a  chapter  of 
the  Bible.  By  and  by  she  looked  up  and  wanted  to 
know  why  God  lived  apart  from  His  wife!" 

Brother  Copas  grunted  his  amusement. 

"Did  you  tell  her?'* 

"I  invented  some  answer,  of  course.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it  satisfied  her — I  am  not  good  at  explanation — 
but  she  took  it  quietly,  as  if  she  put  it  aside  to  think 
over." 

"The  Athanasian  Creed  is  not  easily  edited  for 
children.  ...  If  she  can  read,  the  likelihood  is  she 
can  also  write.  Does  a  girl  need  to  learn  much 
beyond  that?  No,  I  am  not  jesting.  It  's  a  ques- 
tion upon  which  I  have  never  quite  made  up  my 
mind." 

"I  had  hoped  to  find  you  keener,"  said  Brother 
Bonaday  with  a  small  sigh.  Now  I  see  that  you  will 
probably  laugh  at  what  I  am  going  to  confess.  .  .  . 
Last  night,  as  I  sat  a  while  before  going  to  bed,  I 
found  myself  hearkening  for  the  sound  of  her  breath- 
ing in  the  next  room.  After  a  bit,  when  a  minute  or 
so  went  by  and  I  could  hear  nothing,  a  sort  of  panic 
took  me  that  some  harm  had  happened  to  her:  till 
I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  but  picked  up  the  lamp 
and  crept  in  for  a  look.  There  she  lay  sleeping, 
healthy  and  sound,  and  prettier  than  you  'd  ever  think. 
...  I  crept  back  to  my  chair,  and  a  foolish  sort  of 
106 


BY  MERE  RIVER 

hope  came  over  me  that,  with  her  health  and  wits, 
and  being  brought  up  unlike  other  children,  she  might 
come  one  day  to  be  a  little  lady  and  the  pride  of  the 

place,  in  a  way  of  speaking ' 

"A  sort  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  in  modest  fashion — 
is  that  what  you  mean?"  suggested  Brother  Copas — 

"'Like  Her  most  gentle  most  unfortunate, 

Crowned  but  to  die — who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  with  Plato,  tho'  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won, 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  sun.' 

— Well,  if  she 's  willing,  as  unofficial  godfather  I  might 
make  a  start  with  the  Latin  declensions.  It  would 
be  an  experiment:  I  've  never  tried  teaching  a  girl. 
And  I  never  had  a  child  of  my  own,  Brother;  but  I 
can  understand  just  what  you  dreamed,  and  the  Lord 
punish  me  if  I  feel  like  laughing." 

He  said  it  with  an  open  glance  at  his  friend.  But 
it  found  no  responsive  one.  Brother  Bonaday's  brow 
had  contracted,  as  with  a  spasm  of  the  old  pain,  and 
his  eyes  still  scrutinised  the  trailing  weeds  in  Mere 
river. 

"  If  ever  a  man  had  warning  to  be  done  with  life, " 
said  Brother  Bonaday  after  a  long  pause,  "I  had  it 
this  forenoon.  But  it 's  wonderful  what  silly  hopes  a 
child  will  breed  in  a  man." 

Brother  Copas  nodded. 

107 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Aye,  we  '11  have  a  shot  with  her.  But — Oh,  good 
Lord!  Here  's  the  Chaplain  coming." 

"Ah,  Copas — so  here  you  are!"  sung  out  Mr.  Colt 
as  he  approached  with  his  long  stride  up  the  towpath. 
"Nurse  Branscome  told  me  I  should  find  you  here. 
Good  evening,  Bonaday!" 

He  nodded. 

Copas  stood  up  and  inclined  his  body  stiffly. 

"I  hope,  sir,"  was  his  rebuke,  "I  have  not  wholly 
forfeited  the  title  of  Brother?" 

The  Chaplain  flushed. 

"  I  bring  a  message, "  he  said.  "  The  Master  wishes 
to  see  you,  at  half-past  six." 

"That  amounts  to  a  command." 

Brother  Copas  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"I  may  as  well  warn  you,"  the  Chaplain  pursued. 
"You  will  be  questioned  on  your  share  in  that 
offensive  Petition.  As  it  appears,  you  were  even 
responsible  for  composing  it." 

Brother  Copas's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"Is  it  possible,  sir,  that  you  recognised  the  style? 
.  .  .  Ah,  no;  the  handwriting  must  have  been  your 
index.  The  Bishop  showed  it  to  you,  then?" 

"I — er — have  been  permitted  to  glance  it  over." 

"Over  his  shoulder,  if  I  may  make  a  guess,"  mur- 
mured Brother  Copas,  putting  his  watch  away  and 
searching  for  his  snuff-box. 
108 


BY  MERE  RIVER 

"Anyway,  you  signed  it:  as  Bon — as  Brother  Bona- 
day  here  was  too  sensible  to  do:  though,"  added  Mr. 
Colt,  "  his  signature  one  could  at  least  have  respected." 
Brother  Copas  tapped  his  snuff-box,  foreseeing  com- 
edy. 

"And  why  not  mine,  sir?" 

"  Oh,  come,  come! "  blurted  the  Chaplain.  "  I  take 
you  to  be  a  man  of  some  education." 

"Is  that  indeed  the  reason?" 

"A  man  of  some  education,  I  say." 

"And  I  hear  you,  sir."  Brother  Copas  bowed. 
"  'Praise  from  Sir  Richard  Strahan  is  praise  indeed'— 
though  my  poor  friend  here  seems  to  get  the  back- 
hand of  the  compliment." 

"And  it  is  incredible  you  should  go  with  the  igno- 
rant herd  and  believe  us  Clergy  of  the  Church  of 
England  to  be  heading  for  Rome,  as  your  Petition 
asserts." 

Brother  Copas  slowly  inhaled  a  pinch. 

"  In  England,  Mr.  Chaplain,  the  ignorant  herd  has, 
by  the  admission  of  other  nations,  a  practical  political 
sense,  and  a  somewhat  downright  way  with  it.  It 
sees  you  reverting  to  many  doctrines  and  uses  from 
which  the  Reformation  cut  us  free — or,  if  you  prefer 
it,  cut  us  loose;  doctrines  and  uses  which  the  Church 
of  Rome  has  taught  and  practised  without  a  break. 
It  says — this  ignorant  herd — '  If  these  fellows  are  not 
heading  for  Rome,  then  where  the  dickens  are  they 
109 


BROTHER  COPAS 

heading?'  Forgive  this  blunt  way  of  putting  it,  but 
the  question  is  not  so  blunt  as  it  looks.  It  is  on  the 
contrary  extremely  shrewd;  and  until  you  High  An- 
glicans answer  it  candidly,  the  ignorant  herd  will 
suspect — and  you  know,  sir,  the  lower  classes  are 
incurably  suspicious — either  that  yourselves  do  not 
know,  or  that  you  know  and  won't  tell." 

"You  say,"  answered  Mr.  Colt,  "that  we  revert  to 
many  doctrines  and  uses  which,  since  the  Romish 
clergy  preach  and  practise  them,  are  ignorantly  sup- 
posed to  belong  to  Rome.  But  'many'  is  not  'all'; 
nor  does  it  include  the  most  radical  doctrine  of  all. 
How  can  we  intend  Romanising  while  we  deny  the 
supreme  authority  of  the  Pope? — or  Bishop  of  Rome 
as  I  should  prefer  to  call  him." 

"Fairly  countered,"  replied  Brother  Copas,  taking 
another  pinch ;  "  though  the  ignorant  herd  would  have 
liked  better  an  answer  to  its  question.  You  deny  the 
supreme  authority  of  the  Pope?  Very  well.  Whose, 
then,  do  you  accept?" 

"The  authority  of  Christ,  committed  to  His 
Church." 

"Oh,  la,  la,  la!  ...  I  should  have  said,  Whose 
authoritative  interpretation  of  Christ's  authority?" 

"The  Church's." 

"Aye?  Through  whose  mouth?  We  shall  get  at 
something  definite  in  time.  .  .  .  I'll  put  it  more  sim- 
ply. You,  sir,  are  a  plain  priest  in  holy  orders,  and 
110 


BY  MERE  RIVER 

it's  conceivable  that  on  some  point  of  use  or  doctrine 
you  may  be  in  error.  Just  conceivable,  hey  ?  At  all 
events,  you  may  be  accused  of  it.  To  whom,  then, 
do  you  appeal?  To  the  King? — Parliament? — the 
Court  of  Arches,  or  any  other  Court?  Not  a  bit 
of  it.  Well,  let 's  try  again.  Is  it  to  the  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury?  Or  to  your  own  Diocesan?" 

"I  should  appeal  to  the  sanction  of  the  Church 
Catholic  as  given  in  her  ancient  Councils." 

"And  again — as  nowadays  interpreted  by  whom? 
Let  us  pass  a  hundred  possible  points  on  which  no 
Council  bothered  its  head,  and  on  which  consequently 
it  has  left  no  decision.  Who  's  the  man,  anywhere, 
to  take  you  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  chastise  you 
for  an  error?" 

"  Within  the  limits  of  conscience  I  should,  of  course, 
bow  to  my  Diocesan." 

"Elastic  limits,  Mr.  Colt!  and,  substituting  Brother 
Warboise's  conscience  for  yours,  precisely  the  limits 
within  which  Brother  Warboise  bows  to  you!  Anar- 
chy will  obey  anything  *  within  the  limits  of  conscience* 
— that  's  precisely  what  anarchy  means;  and  even  so 
and  to  that  extent  will  you  obey  Bishop  or  Archbishop. 
In  your  heart  you  deny  their  authority;  in  speech,  in 
practice,  you  never  lose  an  occasion  of  flouting  them 
and  showing  them  up  for  fools.  Take  this  Education 
Squabble  for  an  example.  The  successor  to  the  Chair 
of  Augustine,  good  man — he  's,  after  all,  your  Metro- 
Ill 


BROTHER  COPAS 

politan — runs  around  doing  his  best  to  discover  a 
way  out,  to  patch  up  a  'concordat/  as  they  call  it? 
What  's  the  effect  upon  any  Diocesan  Conference? 
Up  springs  subaltern  after  subaltern,  fired  with  zeal 
to  give  his  commander  away.  'Our  beloved  Arch- 
bishop, in  his  saintly  trustfulness,  is  bargaining  away 
our  rights  as  Churchmen' — all  the  indiscipline  of  a 
middle-class  private  school  (and  I  know  what  that  is, 
Mr.  Colt,  having  kept  one)  translated  into  the  senti- 
mental erotics  of  a  young  ladies'  academy!" 

Mr.  Colt  gasped. 

"And  so,  believe  me,  sir,"  concluded  Brother  Copas, 
snapping  down  the  lid  of  his  snuff-box,  "  this  country 
of  ours  did  not  get  rid  of  the  Pope  in  order  to  make 
room  for  a  thousand  and  one  Popelings,  each  in  his 
separate  parish  practising  what  seems  right  in  his 
own  eyes.  At  any  rate,  let  us  say,  remembering  the 
parable  of  the  room  swept  and  garnished,  it  intended 
no  such  result.  Let  us  agree,  Mr.  Chaplain,  to  econo- 
mise in  Popes,  and  to  condemn  that  business  of  Avig- 
non. So  the  ignorant  herd  comes  back  on  you  with 
two  questions,  which  in  effect  are  one:  'If  not  mere 
anarchists,  what  authority  own  you  ?  And  if  not  for 
Rome,  for  what  in  the  world  are  you  heading?'  You 
ask  Rome  to  recognise  your  orders. — Mais,  soyez  con- 
sequent,  monsieur." 

It  was  Mr.  Colt's  turn  to  pull  out  his  watch. 

"Permit  me  to  remind  you,"  he  said,  "that  you,  at 
112 


BY  MERE  RIVER 

any  rate,  have  to  own  an  authority,  and  that  the 
Master  will  be  expecting  you  at  six-thirty  sharp.  For 
the  rest,  sir,  you  cannot  think  that  thoughtful  Church- 
men have  no  answer  to  these  questions,  if  put  by  any- 
one with  the  right  to  put  them.  But  you — not  even 
a  communicant!  Will  you  dare  to  use  these  argu- 
ments to  the  Master,  for  instance?" 

"He  had  the  last  word  there,"  said  Brother  Copas, 
pocketing  his  snuff-box  and  gazing  after  the  Chap- 
lain's athletic  figure  as  it  swung  away  up  the  tow- 
path.  "  He  gave  me  no  time  to  answer  that  one  suits 
an  argument  to  the  adversary.  The  Master  ?  Could 
I  present  anything  so  crude  to  one  who,  though  lazy, 
is  yet  a  scholar? — who  has  certainly  fought  this  thing 
through,  after  his  lights,  and  would  get  me  entangled 
in  the  Councils  of  Carthage  and  Constance,  St.  Cyp- 
rian and  the  rest?  .  .  .  Colt  quotes  the  ignorant 
herd  to  me,  and  I  put  him  the  ignorant  herd's  question 
— without  getting  a  reply." 

"You  did  not  allow  him  much  time  for  one,"  said 
Brother  Bonaday  mildly. 

Brother  Copas  stared  at  him,  drew  out  his  watch 
again,  and  chuckled. 

"  You  're  right.  I  lose  count  of  time,  defending 
my  friends;  and  this  is  your  battle  I  'm  fighting, 
remember." 

He  offered  his  arm,  and  the  two  friends  started  to 
113 


BROTHER  COPAS 

walk  back  towards  St.  Hospital.  They  had  gone  but 
a  dozen  yards  when  a  childish  voice  hailed  them,  and 
Corona  came  skipping  along  the  bank. 

"Daddy!  you  are  to  come  home  at  once!  It  's 
past  six  o'clock,  and  Branny  says  the  river  fog  's  bad 
for  you." 

"Home?"  echoed  Brother  Bonaday  inattentively. 
The  word  had  been  unfamiliar  to  him  for  some  years, 
and  his  old  brain  did  not  grasp  it  for  a  moment.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  question  the  child  as  she  stood  before 
him  panting,  her  hair  dishevelled. 

"Aye,  Brother,"  said  Copas  with  a  glance  at  him, 
"you  '11  have  to  get  used  to  it  again,  and  good  luck 
to  you!  What  says  the  pessimist,  that  American 
fellow?— 

"'Nowhere  to  go  but  out, 
Nowhere  to  come  but  back' — 

Missy  don't  agree  with  her  fellow-countryman,  eh?" 

His  eye  held  a  twinkle  of  mischief. 

"He  isn't  my  fellow-countryman!"  Corona  pro- 
tested vehemently.  "  I  'm  English— amn't  I,  Daddy  ?  " 

"There,  there — forgive  me,  little  one!  And  you 
really  don't  want  to  leave  us  just  yet?" 

"  Leave  you  ?"     The  child  took  Brother  Bonaday's 

hand  and  hugged  it  close.     "Uncle  Copas,  if  you 

won't  laugh   I  want   to   tell   something — what  they 

call    confessing."     She    hesitated    for    a    moment. 

114 


BY  MERE  RIVER 

"  Haven't  you  ever  felt  you  've  got  something  inside, 
and  how  awful  good  it  is  to  confess  and  get  it  off  your 
chest?" 

Brother  Copas  gave  a  start,  and  eyed  his  fellow- 
Protestant. 

"Well?"  he  said  after  a  pause. 

"Well,  it 's  this  way,"  confessed  Corona.  "I  can't 
say  my  prayers  yet  in  this  place — not  to  get  any  heft 
on  them;  and  that  makes  me  feel  bad,  you  know.  I 
start  along  with  'Our  Father,  which  art  in  heaven,' 
and  it 's  like  calling  up  a  person  on  the  'phone  when 
he  's  close  at  your  elbow  all  the  time.  Then  I  say 
'God  bless  St.  Hospital,'  and  there  I  'm  stuck;  it 
don't  seem  I  want  to  worry  God  to  oblige  beyond  that. 
So  I  fetch  back  and  start  telling  how  glad  I  am  to  be 
home — as  if  God  didn't  know — and  that  bats  me  up 
to  St.  Hospital  again.  I  got  stone-walled  that  way 
five  times  last  night.  What  's  the  sense  of  asking 
to  go  to  heaven  when  you  don't  particularly  want 
to?" 

"Child,"  Brother  Copas  answered,  "keep  as  hon- 
est as  that  and  peg  away.  You  '11  find  your  prayers 
straighten  themselves  out  all  right." 

"Sure?  .  .  .  Well,  that  's  a  comfort:  because,  of 
course,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  hell  either.  It  would 
never  do.  ...  But  why  are  you  puckering  up  your 
eyes  so?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Brother  Copas,  "that  I 
115 


BROTHER  COPAS 

might  start  teaching  you  Latin.  Your  father  and  I 
were  discussing  it  just  now. " 

"Would  he  like  me  to  learn  it?" 

"  It 's  the  only  way  to  find  out  all  that  St.  Hospital 
means,  including  all  it  has  meant  for  hundreds  of 
years.  .  .  .  Bless  me,  is  that  the  quarter  chiming? 
Take  your  father's  hand  and  lead  him  home,  child. 
Venit  Hesperus,  ite  capellce." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"  It 's  Latin, "  said  Brother  Copas.  "  It 's  a— a  kind 
of  absolution." 


116 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   ANONYMOUS   LETTER 

ALTHOUGH  the  month  was  June  and  the  evening 
warm,  Master  Blanchminster  sat  huddled  in  his  arm- 
chair before  a  bright  fire.  A  table  stood  at  his  elbow, 
with  some  books  upon  it,  his  untasted  glass  of  wine, 
and  half  a  dozen  letters — his  evening's  post.  But 
the  Master  leaned  forward,  spreading  his  delicate 
fingers  to  the  warmth  and,  between  them,  gazing  into 
the  core  of  the  blaze. 

The  butler  ushered  in  Brother  Copas  and  with- 
drew, after  a  glance  at  the  lights.  Two  wax  candles 
burned  upon  the  writing-table  upon  the  oriel,  and  on 
the  side-table  an  electric  lamp  shaded  with  green  silk 
faintly  silhouetted  the  Master's  features.  Brother  Co- 
pas,  standing  a  little  within  the  doorway,  remarked 
to  himself  that  the  old  gentleman  had  aged  of  late. 

"Ah,  Brother  Copas?  Yes,  I  sent  for  you,"  said 
the  Master,  rousing  himself  as  if  from  a  brown  study. 
"  Be  seated,  please. " 

He  pointed  to  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hearth;  and  Brother  Copas,  seating  himself  with  a 
117 


BROTHER  COPAS 

bow,  spread  the  worn  skirt  of  his  Beauchamp  robe, 
and  arranged  its  folds  over  his  knees.  The  firelight 
sparkled  upon  the  Beauchamp  rose  on  his  breast,  and 
seemed  to  hold  the  Master's  eye  as  he  looked  up  after 
a  pause. 

"You  guess,  no  doubt,  why  I  sent  for  you?" 

Brother  Copas  inclined  his  head. 

"It  concerns  the  Petition  which  Brother  Warboise 
presented  to  the  Bishop  last  Monday.  I  am  not  com- 
plaining just  now  of  his  fashion  of  procedure,  which 
I  may  hazard  was  not  of  your  suggestion. " 

"It  was  not,  Master.  I  may  say  so  much,  having 
warned  him  that  I  should  say  it  if  questioned." 

"Yet  you  wrote  out  and  signed  the  Petition,  and, 
if  I  may  hazard  again,  composed  it?" 

"I  did." 

"  I  have, "  said  Master  Blanchminster,  studying  the 
back  of  his  hands  as  he  held  his  palms  to  the  fire,  "  no 
right  to  force  any  man's  conscience.  But  it  seemed 
to  me,  if  I  may  say  so,  that  while  all  were  forcibly 
put,  certain  of  your  arguments  ignored — or,  let  me 
rather  say,  passed  over — points  which  must  have  oc- 
curred to  a  man  of  your  learning.  Am  I  mistaken?" 

"You  understand,  Master,"  said  Brother  Copas, 
slightly  embarrassed,  and  slightly  the  more  embar- 
rassed because  the  Master,  after  asking  the  question, 
seemed  inclined  to  relapse  into  his  own  thoughts, 
"  the  petition  was  not  mine  only.  I  had  to  compose 
118 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

it  for  all  the  signatories;  and  that,  in  any  public  busi- 
ness, involves  striking  a  mean." 

"I  understand  even  more,"  said  the  Master,  rous- 
ing himself,  and  reaching  for  a  copy  of  the  Petition, 
which  lay  among  his  papers.  "I  understand  that  I 
have  no  right  to  cross-question  a  man  on  his  share  in 
a  document  which  six  or  eight  others  have  signed. 
Shall  it  be  further  understood" — he  looked  up  with 
a  quick  smile  of  goodness,  whereat  Brother  Copas  felt 
ashamed — "  that  I  sent  for  you  as  a  friend,  and  that 
you  may  speak  frankly,  if  you  will  so  honour  me,  with- 
out fear  of  my  remembering  a  word  to  your  incon- 
venience?" 

"And  since  you  so  honour  me,  Master,"  said 
Brother  Copas,  "  I  am  ready  to  answer  all  you  ask. " 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  read  with  particular  interest, 
what  you  have  to  say  here  about  the  practice  of^con- 
fession.  (This,  by  the  way,  is  a  typed  copy,  with 
which  the  Bishop  has  been  kind  enough  to  supply 
me.)  You  have,  I  assume,  no  belief  in  it  or  in  the 
efficacy  of  the  absolution  that  follows  it." 

The  Master,  searching  for  a  paragraph,  did  not 
perceive  that  Brother  Copas  flushed  slightly. 

"And,"  he  continued,  as  he  found  the  passage  and 
laid  his  finger  on  it,  "  although  you  set  out  your  argu- 
ments with  point — with  fairness,  too,  let  me  add — I 
am  perhaps  not  very  far  wrong  in  guessing  that  you 
have  for  Confession  an  instinctive  dislike  which  to 
119 


BROTHER  COPAS 

your  own  mind  means  more  than  any  argument  you 
use." 

The  Master  looked  up  with  a  smile;  but  by  this 
time  Brother  Copas's  flush  had  faded. 

"You  may  say  that,  Master,  of  the  whole  docu- 
ment. I  am  an  old  man — far  too  old  to  have  my  be- 
liefs and  disbeliefs  quickened  by  argument.  They 
have  long  since  hardened  into  prejudices;  and,  speak- 
ing generally,  I  have  a  prejudice  against  this  setting 
of  old  men  by  the  ears  with  a  lot  of  Neo-Catholic 
stuff  which  irritates  half  of  us  while  all  are  equally 
past  being  provoked  to  any  vital  good." 

The  Master  sighed,  for  he  understood. 

"I  too  am  old,"  he  answered,  "older  even  than 
you;  and  as  death  draws  nearer  I  incline  with  you, 
to  believe  that  the  fewer  our  words  on  these  ques- 
tions that  separate  us  the  better.  (There  's  a  fine 
passage  to  that  effect  in  one  of  Jowett's  Introduc- 
tions, you  may  remember — the  Phoedo,  I  think.) 
Least  said  is  soonest  mended,  and  good  men  are  too 
honest  to  go  out  of  the  world  professing  more  than 
they  know.  Since  we  are  opening  our  minds  a  little 
beyond  our  wont,  let  me  tell  you  exactly  what  is  my 
own  prejudice,  as  you  would  call  it.  To  me  Con- 
fession has  been  a  matter  of  happy  experience — I  am 
speaking  now  of  younger  days,  at  Cuddesdon 

"Ah!"   breathed  Copas. 

"  And  the  desire  to  offer  to  others  what  has  been  a 
120 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

great  blessing  to  myself,  has  at  times  been  very  strong. 
But  I  recognised  that  the  general  English  mind — 
yes,  I'll  grant  you,  the  general  healthy  English  mind 
— had  its  prejudice  too;  a  prejudice  so  sturdy  against 
Confession,  that  it  seemed  to  me  I  should  alienate 
more  souls  than  I  attracted  and  breed  more  ill-temper 
than  charity  to  cover  it.  So — weakly  perhaps — I 
never  spoke  of  it  in  sermons,  and  by  consequence  no 
Brother  of  St.  Hospital  has  ever  sought  from  me  that 
comfort  which  my  conscience  all  the  while  would 
have  approved  of  giving." 

Brother  Copas  bowed  his  head  for  sign  that  he 
understood. 

"  But — excuse  me,  Master — you  say  that  you  found 
profit  in  Confession  at  Cuddesdon;  that  is,  when  I 
dare  say  your  manhood  was  young  and  in  ferment. 
Be  it  granted  that  just  at  such  a  crisis,  Confession  may 
be  salutary.  Have  you  found  it  profitable  in  later  life  ?  " 

"I  cannot,"  the  Master  answered,  "honestly  say 
more  than  that  no  doubt  of  it  has  ever  occurred  to 
me,  and  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  have  not  tried. 
But  I  see  at  what  you  are  driving — that  we  of  St. 
Hospital  are  too  old  to  taste  its  benefit?  .  .  .  Yet 
I  should  have  thought  that  even  in  age  it  might  bring 
comfort  to  some;  and,  if  so,  why  should  the  others 
complain  ?  " 

"For  the  offence  it  carries  as  an  infraction  of  the 
reformed  doctrine  under  which  they  supposed  them- 
121 


BROTHER  COPAS 

selves  to  order  their  lives  and  worship.  They  con- 
tend, Master,  that  they  are  all  members  of  one  So- 
ciety; and  if  the  doctrine  of  that  Society  be  infringed 
to  comfort  A  or  B,  it  is  to  that  extent  weakened  in- 
juriously for  C  and  D,  who  have  been  building  their 
everlasting  and  only  hope  on  it,  and  have  grown  too 
old  to  change." 

"But,"  answered  Master  Blanchminster,  pinning 
his  finger  on  the  paragraph,  "you  admit  here  that 
even  the  reformed  Church,  in  the  Order  for  the  Visi- 
tation of  the  Sick,  enjoins  Confession  and  prescribes 
a  form  of  absolution.  Now  if  a  man  be  not  too  old 
for  it  when  he  is  dying,  a  fortiori  he  cannot  be  too  old 
for  it  at  any  previous  time." 

Brother  Copas  rubbed  his  hands  together  softly, 
gleefully.  He  adored  dialectic. 

"With  your  leave,  Master,"  he  replied,  "dying  is 
a  mighty  singular  business.  The  difference  between 
it  and  growing  old  cannot  be  treated  as  a  mere  matter 
of  degree.  Now  one  of  the  points  I  make  is  that 
the  Church,  by  expressly  allowing  Confession  on  this 
singular  occasion,  while  saying  nothing  about  it  on 
any  other  thereby  inferentially  excludes  it  on  all 
others — or  discountenances  it,  to  say  the  least." 

"There  I  join  issue  with  you,  maintaining  that  all 

such  occasions  are  covered  by  the  general  authority 

bestowed  at  Ordination  with  the  laying-on  of  hands — 

'Whose  sins   thou   dost  forgive  they  are  forgiven/ 

122 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

etc.     To  construe  an  open  exhortation  in  one  of  her 
offices  as  a  silent  denunciation  in  all  the  rest  seems 

For  the  next  few  minutes  the  pair  enjoyed  them- 
selves to  the  top  of  their  bent,  until,  as  the  Master 
pushed  aside  some  papers  on  the  table  to  get  at  his 
Prayer  Book— to  prove  that  No.  XXV  of  the  Articles 
of  Religion  did  not  by  its  wording  disparage  abso- 
lution— his  eye  fell  on  a  letter  which  lay  uppermost. 
He  paused  midway  in  a  sentence,  picked  the  thing 
up  and  held  it  for  a  moment  disgustedly  between 
forefinger  and  thumb. 

"Brother  Copas,"  he  said  with  a  change  of  voice, 
"we  lose  ourselves  in  logomarchy,  and  I  had  rather 
hark  back  to  a  word  you  let  drop  a  while  ago  about 
the  Brotherhood.  You  spoke  of  'setting  old  men 
by  the  ears.'  Do  you  mean  it  seriously — that  our 
Brethren,  just  now,  are  not  dwelling  in  concord?" 

"God  bless  your  innocent  old  heart!"  murmured 
Brother  Copas  under  his  breath.  Aloud  he  said, 
"Men  of  the  Brethren's  age,  Master,  are  not  always 
amiable;  and  the  tempers  of  their  women-folk  are 
sometimes  unlovely.  We  are,  after  all,  failures  in  life, 
and  to  have  lived  night  and  day  beside  anyone  of  us 
can  be  no  joke." 

The  Master,  with  his  body  half-turned  towards  the 
reading-lamp,  still  held  the  letter  and  eyed  it  at  arm's 
length. 

123 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"I  observed,"  he  said  after  a  while,  "that  Brother 
Bonaday  did  not  sign  your  Petition.  Yet  I  had  sup- 
posed him  to  be  an  Evangelical,  and  everyone  knows 
you  two  to  be  close  friends."  The  Master  mused 
again.  "Pardon  me,  but  he  has  some  reason,  of 
course?" 

"He  has." 

"Which  you  are  not  at  liberty  to  tell  me?" 

"That  is  so." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  Master,  turning  and  facing 
about  on  Brother  Copas  with  a  sudden  resolve.  "  I 
wonder  if — to  leave  this  matter  of  the  Petition — you 
can  tell  me  something  else  concerning  your  friend, 
something  which,  if  you  can  .answer  it  so  as  to  help 
him,  will  also  lift  a  sad  weight  off  my  mind.  If  you 
cannot,  I  shall  equally  forget  that  the  question  was 
ever  put  or  the  answer  withheld.  .  .  .  To  be  candid, 
when  you  were  shown  in  I  was  stiting  here  in  great 
distress  of  mind." 

"Surely  not  about  Bonaday,  Master?"  said 
Brother  Copas,  wondering. 

"About  Bonaday,  yes."  The  Master  inclined  his 
head.  "Poison — it  has  been  running  through  my 
thoughts  all  the  while  we  have  been  talking.  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  show  you  this;  the  fire  is  its  only 
proper  receptacle — 

"Poison?"    echoed  Brother  Copas.     "And  about 
Bonaday?   who,  good  soul,  never  hurt  a  fly!" 
124 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  you  say  it,"  said  the  Master, 
plainly  relieved,  and  he  appeared  half-minded  to  with- 
draw and  pocket  the  scrap  of  paper  for  which  Copas 
held  out  a  hand.  "  It  is  an  anonymous  letter,  and — 
er — evidently  the  product  of  a  foul  mind " 

Brother  Copas  took  it  and,  fumbling  for  his  glasses, 
gazed  around  in  search  of  the  handiest  light  by  which 
to  read  it.  Master  Blanchminster  hurried  to  catch  up 
the  electric  lamp  and  set  it  on  the  mantel-shelf  above 
his  shoulder.  Its  coil  of  silk-braided  wire  dragging 
across  the  papers  on  the  table,  one  or  two  dropped 
on  the  floor;  and  whilst  the  Master  stooped  to  collect 
them  Brother  Copas  read  the  letter,  first  noting  at  a 
glance  that  the  paper  was  cheap  and  the  handwriting, 
though  fairly  legible,  at  once  uneducated  and  pain- 
fully disguised. 

It  ran — 

"Master, — This  is  to  warn  you  that  you  are  too 
kind  and  anyone  can  take  you  in.  It  wasn't  enough 
Bonaday  should  get  the  best  rooms  in  S.  Hospital, 
but  now  you  give  him  leave  for  this  child  which  every 
one  in  S.  Hospital  knows  is  a  bastard.  If  you  want  to 
find  tJie  mother,  no  need  to  go  far.  Why  is  Nurse 

B hanging  about  his  rooms  now?     Which  they 

didn't  carry  it  so  far  before,  but  they  was  acquainted 

years  ago,  as  is  common  talk.     God  knows  my  reasons 

for  writing  this  much  are  honest:  but  I  hate  to  see  your 

125 


BROTHER  COPAS 

goodness  put  upon,  and  a  scandal  which  the  whole  S. 
Hospital  feels  bitter  about — such  letchery  and  wicked- 
ness in  our  midst,  and  nobody  knowing  how  to  put  a 
stop  to  it  all. 

"  Yours  obda«-> 

"A  Well  Wisher." 

"The  handwriting,"  said  Brother  Copas,  "is  a 
woman's,  though  disguised." 

The  Master,  erect  again,  having  collected  his  papers, 
eyed  Brother  Copas  as  if  surprised  by  his  calm  tone. 

"You  make  nothing  of  it,  then?" 

"Fst!" 

"I — I  was  hoping  so."  The  Master's  voice  was 
tremulous,  apologetic.  "It  came  by  this  evening's 
post,  not  half  an  hour  ago.  ...  I  am  not  used 
to  receive  such  things:  yet  I  know  what  ought  to  be 
done  with  them — toss  them  into  the  fire  at  once  and 
dismiss  them  from  your  mind.  I  make  no  doubt  I 
should  have  burnt  it  within  another  ten  minutes:  as 
for  cleansing  one's  mind  of  it  so  quickly,  that  must  be 
a  counsel  of  perfection.  But  you  were  shown  in,  and 
I — I  made  certain  that  you  could  contradict  this  dis- 
graceful report  and  set  my  mind  at  rest.  Forgive 
me." 

"Ah,  Master" — Brother  Copas  glanced  up  with  a 
quick  smile — "it  almost  looks  as  if  you  were  right 
after  all,  and  one  is  never  too  old  to  confess!"  He 
126 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

bent  and  held  the  edge  of  the  paper  close  to  the  blaze. 
"May  I  burn  it?" 

"By  all  means." 

"Nay,  then,  I  won't.  But  since  you  have  freely 
parted  with  it,  may  I  keep  it?  ...  I  have  had 
some  little  experience  with  manuscripts,  and  it  is  just 
possible  I  may  trace  this  to  the  writer — who  is  as- 
suredly a  woman,"  added  Brother  Copas,  studying 
the  letter  again. 

"You  have  my  leave  to  do  so." 

"  And  you  ask  no  further  question  ?  " 

The  Master  hesitated.     At  length  he  said  firmly — 

"None.  I  have  no  right.  How  can  so  foul  a 
thing  confer  any  right?" 

Brother  Copas  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"Nay,  that  is  true,  Master;  it  cannot.  .  .  .  Nev- 
ertheless, I  will  answer  what  was  in  your  mind  to 
ask.  When  I  came  into  the  room  you  were  pondering 
this  letter.  The  thought  of  it— pah!— mixed  itself 
up  with  a  thought  of  the  appointment  you  had  set 
for  me — with  the  Petition;  and  the  two  harked  back 
together  upon  a  question  you  put  to  me  just  now. 
'Why  was  not  Brother  Bonaday  among  the  signa- 
tories?' Between  them  they  turned  that  question 
into  a  suspicion.  Guilty  men  are  seldom  bold:  as 
the  Scots  say,  'Riven  breeks  sit  still.'  .  .  .  Was  not 
this,  or  something  like  it,  in  your  mind,  sir?" 

"  I  confess  that  it  was." 
127 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  Why  then,  Master,  I  too  will  confess — I  that  came 
to  you  to  denounce  the  practice.  Of  what  this  letter 
hints  Bonaday  is  innocent  as — as  you  are.  He 
approved  of  the  Petition  and  was  on  the  point  of 
signing  it;  but  he  desired  your  good  leave  to  make  a 
home  for  his  child.  Between  parent  and  Protestant 
my  friend  was  torn,  and  moreover  between  conscience 
and  loyalty.  He  could  not  sue  for  this  favour  from 
you,  his  soul  weighted  with  an  intention  to  go  straight- 
way and  do  what  must  offend  you." 

Master  Blanchminster  faced  Brother  Copas  square- 
ly, standing  of  a  sudden  erect.  It  seemed  to  add 
inches  to  his  stature. 

"Had  he  so  poor  a  trust  in  me,  after  these  years?" 

"No,  Master."  Brother  Copas  bent  his  head. 
"That  is  where  I  come  in.  All  this  is  but  prepar- 
atory. ...  I  am  a  fraud — as  little  Protestant  as 
Catholic.  I  found  my  friend  in  straits,  and  made  a 
bargain  with  those  who  were  pressing  him — 

"Do  I  understand,  Brother  Copas,  that  this  Peti- 
tion— of  which  all  the  strength  lies  in  its  scholarship 
and  wording — is  yours,  and  that  on  these  terms  only 
you  have  given  me  so  much  pain?" 

"You  may  put  it  so,  Master,  and  I  can  say  no 
more  than  'yes' — though  I  might  yet  plead  that  some- 
thing is  wrong  with  St.  Hospital,  and — 

"Something  is  very  wrong  with  St.  Hospital," 
interrupted  the  Master  gravely.  "This  letter — if  it 
128 


THE  ANONYMOUS  LETTER 

come  from  within  our  walls But  I  after  all,  as 

its  Master,  am  ultimately  to  blame."  He  paused 
for  a  moment  and  looked  up.  with  a  sudden  winning 
smile.  "We  have  both  confessed  some  sins.  Shall 
we  say  a  prayer  together,  Brother?" 

The  two  old  men  knelt  by  the  hearth  there.     To- 
gether in  silence  they  bowed  their  heads. 


129 


CHAPTER  XI 

BROTHER   COPAS   ON   THE   ANGLO-SAXON 

"You  ought  to  write  a  play,"  said  Mrs.  Simeon. 

Mr.  Simeon  looked  up  from  his  dinner  and  stared 
at  his  wife  as  though  she  had  suddenly  taken  leave 
of  her  senses.  She  sat  holding  a  fork  erect  and  close 
to  her  mouth,  with  a  morsel  of  potato  ready  to  be 
popped  in  as  soon  as  she  should  finish  devouring  a 
paragraph  of  The  People  newspaper,  folded  beside 
her  plate.  In  a  general  way  Mrs.  Simeon  was  not  a 
reader;  but  on  Mondays  (washing-days)  she  regu- 
larly had  the  loan  of  a  creased  copy  of  The  People 
from  a  neighbour  who,  having  but  a  couple  of  chil- 
dren, could  afford  to  buy  and  peruse  it  on  the  day  of 
issue.  There  is  much  charity  among  the  working  poor. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear?"  Mr.  Simeon 
murmured,  after  gently  admonishing  his  second  son 
(Eustace,  aged  11,  named  after  the  Master)  for  flip- 
ping bread  pills  across  the  table.  "  I  am  afraid  I  did 
not  catch " 

"  I  see  there 's  a  man  has  made  forty  thousand 
pounds  by  writing  one.  And  he  did  it  in  three  weeks, 
130 


ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

after  beginning  as  a  clerk  in  the  stationery.  .  .  . 
Forty  thousand  pounds,  only  think!  That  's  what  I 
call  turning  cleverness  to  account." 

"But,  my  love,  I  don't  happen  to  be  clever/'  pro- 
tested Mr.  Simeon. 

His  wife  swallowed  her  morsel  of  potato.  She  was 
a  worn-looking  blonde,  peevish,  not  without  traces  of 
good  looks.  She  wore  the  sleeves  of  her  bodice  rolled 
up  to  the  elbows,  and  her  wrists  and  forearms  were 
bleached  by  her  morning's  work  at  the  wash-tub. 

"Then  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  else  you  are!" 
said  she,  looking  at  him  straight. 

Mr.  Simeon  sighed.  Ever  on  Mondays  he  returned 
at  midday  to  a  house  filled  with  steam  and  the  dank 
odour  of  soap-suds,  and  to  the  worst  of  the  week's 
meagre  meals.  A  hundred  times  he  had  reproached 
himself  that  he  did  ungratefully  to  let  this  affect  him, 
for  his  wife  (poor  soul)  had  been  living  in  it  all  day, 
whereas  his  morning  had  been  spent  amid  books, 
rare  prints,  statuettes,  soft  carpets,  all  the  delicate 
luxuries  of  Master  Blanchminster's  library.  Yet  he 
could  not  help  feeling  the  contrast;  and  the  children 
were  always  at  their  most  fractious  on  Mondays, 
chafed  by  a  morning  in  school  after  two  days  of  free- 
dom. 

"Where  are  you  going  this  afternoon?"  his  wife 
asked. 

"To  blow  the  organ  for  Windeatt." 
131 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Dr.  Windeatt  (Mus.  Doc.  Oxon.)  was  the  Cathedral 
organist. 

"Has  he  offered  to  pay  you?" 

"  Well — it  isn't  pay  exactly.  There  was  an  under- 
standing that  if  I  blew  for  him  this  afternoon — old 
Brewer  being  laid  up  with  the  shingles — he  would 
take  me  through  that  tenor  part  in  the  new  Vcnite 
Exultenus.  It  's  tricky,  and  yesterday  morning  I 
slurred  it  horribly." 

"Tc'ht!  A  man  of  your  education  blowing  an  or- 
gan, and  for  nothing!  If  there  was  any  money  in  it 
one  wouldn't  mind  so  much.  .  .  .  But  you  let 
yourself  be  put  upon  by  anybody." 

Mr.  Simeon  was  silent.  He  knew  that  to  defend 
himself  would  be  to  court  a  wrangle,  reproaches,  tears 
perhaps,  all  unseemly  before  the  children;  and,  more- 
over, what  his  wife  said  was  more  than  half  deserved. 

"Daddy,  why  don't  you  write  a  play?"  demanded 
the  five-year-old  Agatha.  "And  then  mammy  would 
have  a  carriage,  and  I  'd  go  to  a  real  boarding-school 
with  canaries  in  the  window  like  they  have  at  Miss 
Dickinson's." 

The  meal  over,  Mr.  Simeon  stole  away  to  the 
Cathedral.  He  was  unhappy;  and  as  he  passed 
through  Friars'  Gateway  into  the  Close,  the  sight  of 
the  minster,  majestical  above  its  green  garth,  for  once 
gave  no  lift  to  his  spirit.  The  great  central  tower 
132 


ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

rose  against  a  sky  of  clearest  blue,  strong  and  four- 
square as  on  the  day  when  its  Norman  builders  took 
down  their  scaffolding.  White  pigeons  hovered  or 
perched  on  niche  and  corbel.  But  fortitude  and  as- 
piration alike  had  deserted  Mr.  Simeon  for  the  while. 
Life — hard  life  and  poverty — had  subdued  him  to 
be  one  of  the  petty,  nameless  crowd  this  Cathedral 
had  seen  creep  to  their  end  in  its  shadow.  .  .  . 
"What  should  such  creatures  as  I  do,  crawling  be- 
tween earth  and  heaven?"  A  thousand  thousand 
such  as  Mr.  Simeon  had  listened  or  lifted  their  voice 
to  its  anthems — had  aspired  for  the  wings  of  a  dove, 
to  fly  away  and  be  at  rest.  Where  now  were  all 
their  emotions?  He  entered  by  a  side-door  of  the 
western  porch.  The  immense,  solemn  nave,  if  it  did 
not  catch  his  thoughts  aloft,  at  least  hushed  them  in 
awe.  To  Mr.  Simeon  Merchester  Cathedral  was  a 
passion,  nearer,  if  not  dearer,  than  wife  or  children. 

He  had  arrived  ten  minutes  ahead  of  the  appointed 
time.  As  he  walked  towards  the  great  organ  he 
heard  a  child's  voice,  high-pitched  and  clear,  talking 
behind  the  traceries  of  the  choir  screen.  He  sup- 
posed it  the  voice  of  some  irreverent  chorister,  and 
stepping  aside  to  rebuke  it,  discovered  Corona  and 
Brother  Copas  together  gazing  up  at  the  coffins  above 
the  canopy. 

"  And  is  King  Alfred  really  up  there  ? — the  one  that 
burnt  the  cakes? — and  if  so,  which?"    Corona  was 
asking,  too  eager  to  think  of  grammar. 
133 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Brother  Copas  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"What  's  left  of  him  is  up  there  somewhere. 

"'Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things 

Dropped  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings.' — 

But  the  Parliament  troopers  broke  open  the  coffins 
and  mixed  the  dust  sadly.  The  Latin  says  so.  'In 
this  and  the  neighbouring  chests'  (or  caskets,  as  you 
say  in  America),  '  confounded  in  a  time  of  Civil  Fury, 

reposes  what  dust  is  left  of '  Ah,  good  afternoon, 

Mr.  Simeon!  This  young  lady  has  laid  forcible  hands 
on  me  to  give  her  an  object-lesson  in  English  history. 
Do  you,  who  know  ten  times  more  of  the  Cathedral 
than  I,  come  to  my  aid." 

"If  you  are  looking  for  King  Alfred,"  answered 
Mr.  Simeon,  beaming  on  Corona  through  his  glasses, 
"  there  's  a  tradition  that  his  dust  lies  in  the  second 
chest  to  the  right  ...  a  tradition  only.  No  one 
really  knows." 

Corona  shifted  her  position  some  six  paces  to  the 
right,  and  tilted  her  gaze  up  at  the  coffer  as  though 
she  would  crick  her  neck. 

"Aye,  missy" — Mr.  Simeon  still  beamed — "they  're 
up  there,  the  royal  ones — Dane  and  Norman  and 
Angevin ;  and  not  one  to  match  the  great  Anglo-Saxon 
that  was  father  of  us  all." 

Brother  Copas  grunted  impatiently. 

"My  good  Simeon,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!  God  forbid  that  one  should  decry  such  a 
134 


ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

man  as  Alfred  was.  But  the  pedantry  of  Freeman 
and  his  sect,  who  tried  to  make  'English*  a  con- 
terminous name  and  substitute  for  'Anglo-Saxon/ 
was  only  by  one  degree  less  offensive  than  the  igno- 
rance of  your  modern  journalist  who  degrades  Eng- 
lishmen by  writing  them  down  (or  up,  the  poor  fool 
imagines)  as  Anglo-Saxons.  In  truth,  King  Alfred 
was  a  noble  fellow.  No  one  in  history  has  struggled 
more  pluckily  to  rekindle  fire  in  an  effete  race  or  to 
put  spirit  into  an  effete  literature  by  pretending  that 
both  were  of  the  prime." 

"Come,  come,"  murmured  Mr.  Simeon,  smiling. 
"  I  see  you  are  off  upon  one  of  your  hobbies.  .  .  . 
But  you  will  not  tell  me  that  the  fine  rugged  epic  of 
Beowulf,  to  which  the  historians  trace  back  all  that 
is  noblest  in  our  poetry,  had  lost  its  generative  impulse 
even  so  early  as  Alfred's  time.  That  were  too  ex- 
travagant!" 

"  Brekekekex,  ten  brink,  ten  brink  !  "  snapped  Brother 
Copas.  "  All  the  frogs  in  chorus  around  Charon's  boat! 
Fine  rugged  fiddlestick — have  you  ever  read  Beowulf?  " 

"  In  translation  only." 

"You  need  not  be  ashamed  of  labour  saved.  I 
once  spent  a  month  or  two  in  mastering  Anglo-Saxon, 
having  a  suspicion  of  Germans  when  they  talk  about 
English  literature,  and  a  deeper  suspicion  of  English 
critics  who  ape  them.  Then  I  tackled  Beoumlf,  and 
found  it  to  be  what  I  guessed — no  rugged  national 
epic  at  all,  but  a  blown-out  bag  of  bookishness.  Im- 
135 


BROTHER  COPAS 

pulse?  Generative  impulse? — the  thing  is  wind,  I 
tell  you,  without  sap  or  sinew,  the  production  of  some 
conscientious  Anglo-Saxon  whose  blue  eyes,  no  doubt, 
watered  with  the  effort  of  inflating  it.  I  '11  swear  it 
never  drew  a  human  tear  otherwise.  .  .  .  That  's 
what  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  race  had  become  when 
Alfred  arose  to  galvanise  'em  for  a  while — a  herd  of 
tall,  flabby,  pale-eyed  men,  who  could  neither  fight, 
build,  sing,  nor  enforce  laws.  And  so  our  England — 
wise  as  Austria  in  mating — turned  to  other  nuptials 
and  married  William  the  Norman.  Behold  then  a 
new  breed;  the  country  covered  with  sturdy,  bullet- 
headed,  energetic  fellows  who  are  no  sooner  born 
than  they  fly  to  work — hammers  going,  scaffolds 
climbing,  cities,  cathedrals  springing  up  by  magic, 
and  all  to  a  new  song  that  came  with  some  imported 
workmen  from  the  Provence — 

"'Quan  la  douss'  aura  venta 
Deves  vostre  pays  '— 

and  so — pop! — down  the  wind  goes  your  pricked 
bladder  of  a  Beowulf:  down  the  wind  that  blows  from 
the  Mediterranean,  whence  the  arts  and  the  best  re- 
ligions come." 

Mr.  Simeon  rubbed  the  side  of  his  jaw  thoughtfully. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "I  remember  Master  Blanchmin- 
ster  saying  something  of  the  sort  the  other  day.  He 
was  talking  of  wine." 

"Yes — the  best  religions  and  the  best  wine:  they 
136 


ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

go  together.  Could  ever  an  Anglo-Saxon  have  built 
that,  think  you?"  demanded  Brother  Copas  with  a 
backward  jerk  of  the  head  and  glance  up  at  the 
vaulted  roof.  "  But  to  my  moral. — All  this  talk  of 
Anglo-Saxons,  Celts,  and  the  rest  is  rubbish.  We 
are  English  by  chemical  action  of  a  score  of  inter- 
fused bloods.  That  man  is  a  fool  who  speaks  as 
though,  at  this  point  of  time,  they  could  be  separated: 
had  he  the  power  to  put  his  nonsense  into  practice  he 
would  be  a  wicked  fool.  And  so  I  say,  Mr.  Simeon, 
that  the  Roundheads — no  pure  Anglo-Saxon,  by  the 
way,  ever  had  a  round  head — who  mixed  up  the 
dead  dust  in  the  caskets  aloft  there,  were  really  leav- 
ing us  a  sound  historical  lesson " 

But  here  Mr.  Simeon  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  brisk 
footstep.  Dr.  Windeatt  had  just  entered  by  the 
western  door. 

"  You  '11  excuse  me  ?  I  promised  the  Doctor  to  blow 
the  organ  for  him." 

"Do  people  blow  upon  organs?"  asked  Corona, 
suddenly  interested.  "I  thought  they  played  upon 
them  the  same  as  pianos,  only  with  little  things  that 
pulled  out  at  the  sides." 

"  Come  and  see,"  Mr.  Simeon  invited  her,  smiling. 

The  three  went  around  to  the  back  of  the  organ 
loft.  By  and  by  when  Mr.  Simeon  began  to  pump, 
and  after  a  minute,  a  quiet  adagio,  rising  upon  a 
throb  of  air,  stole  along  the  aisles  as  though  an  angel 
spoke  in  it,  or  the  very  spirit  of  the  building,  tears 
137 


BROTHER  COPAS 

sprang  into  the  child's  eyes  and  overflowed.  She 
supposed  that  Mr.  Simeon  alone  was  working  this 
miracle.  .  .  .  Blinking  more  tears  away,  she  stared 
at  him,  meeting  his  mild,  half-quizzical  gaze  as  he 
stooped  and  rose  and  stooped  again  over  the  bellows. 

Brother  Copas,  touching  her  elbow,  signed  to  her 
to  come  away.  She  obeyed,  very  reluctantly.  By  a 
small  doorway  in  the  southern  aisle  she  followed  him 
out  into  the  sunshine  of  the  Cathedral  Close. 

"But  how  does  he  do  it?"  she  demanded.  "He 
doesn't  look  a  bit  as  if  he  could  do  anything  like  that 
— not  in  repose." 

Brother  Copas  eyed  her  and  took  snuff. 

"  He  and  the  like  of  him  don't  touch  the  stops,  my 
dear.  He  and  the  like  of  him  do  better;  they  supply 
the  afflatus." 

0  ye  holy  and  humble  Men  of  heart,  bless  ye  the 
Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever  ! 

Mr.  Simeon  worked  mechanically,  heaving  and 
pressing  upon  the  bellows  of  the  great  organ.  His 
mind  ran  upon  Master  Copas's  disparagement  of 
Beowulf  and  the  Anglo-Saxons.  It  was  ever  the 
trouble  that  he  remembered  an  answer  for  Brother 
Copas  after  Brother  Copas  had  gone.  .  .  .  Why 
had  he  not  bethought  him  to  cite  Csedmon,  at  any 
rate,  against  that  sweeping  disparagement?  How 
went  the  story  ? — 

138 


ON  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

Coedmon  was  a  lay  brother,  a  tender  of  cattle  at  the 
Abbey  of  Whitby  under  the  Abbess  Hilda  who  founded 
it.  Until  somewhat  spent  in  years  he  had  never  learnt 
any  poems.  Therefore  at  a  feast,  when  all  sang  in 
turn,  so  soon  as  he  saw  the  harp  coming  near  him,  he 
would  rise  and  leave  the  table  and  go  home.  Once 
when  he  had  gone  thus  from  the  feast  to  the  stables, 
where  he  had  night-charge  of  the  beasts,  as  he  yielded 
himself  to  sleep  One  stood  over  him  and  said,  greeting 
him  by  name,  "  Coedmon,  sing  some  song  to  me."  "  I 
cannot  sing,"  he  said,  "and  for  this  cause  left  I  the 
feast."  "But  you  shall  sing  to  me,"  said  the  Vision. 
"Lord,  what  shall  I  sing?"  "Sing  the  Creation," 
said  the  Vision.  Casdmon  sang,  and  in  the  morning 
remembered  what  he  had  sung  .  .  . 

"If  this  indeed  happened  to  Csedmon,  and  late  in 
life"  (mused  Mr.  Simeon,  heaving  on  the  bellows  of 
the  great  organ),  "  might  not  even  some  such  miracle 
befall  me?" 

Lord,  I  have  loved  the  habitation  of  Thy  house,  and 
the  place  where  Thine  honour  dwelleth. 

"  I  might  even  write  a  play,"  thought  Mr.  Simeon. 


139 


CHAPTER  XII 

MR.   ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

"  UNCLE  COPAS,"  said  Corona,  as  the  two  passed  out 
through  the  small  doorway  in  the  southern  aisle  and 
stood  blinking  in  the  sunshine,  "I  want  you  next  to 
show  me  what 's  left  of  the  old  Castle  where  the  kings 
lived:  that  is,  if  you  're  not  tired." 

"Tired,  child?  'Tis  our  business— 'tis  the  Breth- 
ren's business — to  act  as  guides  around  the  relics  of 
Merchester.  By  fetching  a  very  small  circuit  we  can 
take  the  Castle  on  our  way,  and  afterwards  walk  home 
along  the  water-meads,  my  favourite  path." 

Corona  slipped  her  hand  into  his  confidentially. 
Together  they  left  the  Close,  and  passing  under  the 
King's  Gate,  turned  down  College  Street,  which  led 
them  by  the  brewhouse  and  outer  porch  of  the  great 
School.  A  little  beyond  it,  where  by  a  conduit  one 
of  the  Mere's  hurrying  tributaries  gushed  beneath  the 
road,  they  came  to  a  regiment  of  noble  elms  guarding 
a  gateway,  into  which  Brother  Copas  turned  aside. 
A  second  and  quite  unpretentious  gateway  admitted 
them  to  a  green  meadow,  in  shape  a  rough  semicircle, 
enclosed  by  ruinated  walls. 

"You  may  come  here  most  days  of  the  month," 
140 


MR.   ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

said  Brother  Copas,  holding  the  gate  wide,  "and 
never  meet  a  soul.  'Tis  the  tranquillest,  most  for- 
saken spot  in  the  city's  ambit." 

But  here,  as  Corona  caught  her  breath,  he  turned 
and  stared.  The  enclosure  was  occupied  by  a  squad 
of  soldiers  at  drill. 

They  wore  uniforms  of  khaki,  and,  dressed  up  with 
their  backs  to  the  gateway,  were  performing  the  sim- 
ple movements  of  foot  drill  in  face  of  a  choleric  ser- 
geant-major, who  shouted  the  words  of  command, 
and  of  a  mounted  officer  who  fronted  the  squad, 
silent,  erect  in  saddle,  upon  a  strapping  bay.  Some 
few  paces  behind  this  extremely  military  pair  stood 
a  couple  of  civilian  spectators  side  by  side,  in  attire — 
frock-coats,  top-hats,  white  waistcoats — which  at  a 
little  distance  gave  them  an  absurd  resemblance  to  a 
brace  of  penguins. 

"Heavens!"  murmured  Brother  Copas.  "Is  it 
possible  that  Bamberger  has  become  twins?  One 
never  knows  of  what  these  Jews  are  capable.  .  .  ." 

His  gaze  travelled  from  the  two  penguins  to  the 
horseman  in  khaki.  He  put  up  a  shaking  hand  to 
shade  it. 

"Colt?  Colt  in  regimentals?  Oh,  this  must  be 
vertigo!" 

At  a  word  from  the  sergeant-major  the  squad  fell 
out  and  stood  in  loose  order,  plainly  awaiting  instruc- 
141 


BROTHER  COPAS 

tions.  Mr.  Colt — yes,  indeed  it  was  the  Chaplain 
— turned  his  charger's  head  half-about  as  the  two 
frock-coated  civilians  stepped  forward. 

"Now,  Mr.  Bamberger,  my  men  are  at  your  dis- 
posal." 

"  I  t'ank  you,  Reverent  Mr.  Major — if  zat  is  ze  form 
to  address  you "  began  Mr.  Bamberger's  double. 

"  'Major,'  tout  court,  if  you  please,"  Mr.  Colt  cor- 
rected him.  "One  drops  the  'reverend'  while  actu- 
ally on  military  duty." 

"So?  Ach,  pardon! — I  should  haf  known.  .  . 
Now  ze  first  is,  we  get  ze  angle  of  view,  where  to  place 
our  Grandt  Standt  so  ze  backgrount  mek  ze  most 
pleasing  pigture.  At  ze  same  time  ze  Standt  must 
not  tresbass — must  not  imbinge,  hein? — upon  our 
stage,  our  what-you-call-it  area.  Two  t'ousand  ber- 
formers — we  haf  not  too  mooch  room.  I  will  ask 
you,  Mr.  Major,  first  of  all  to  let  your  men — zey  haf 
tent-pegs,  hein  ? — to  let  your  men  peg  out  ze  area  as 
I  direct.  Afterwards,  with  your  leaf,  you  shall  place 
z'em  here — z'ere — in  groups,  zat  I  may  see  in  some 
sort  how  ze  groups  combose,  as  we  say.  Himmel! 
what  a  backgroundt!  Ze  Cathedral,  how  it  lifts  over 
ze  trees — Bar-feet!  Now,  if  you  will  follow  me  a 
few  paces  to  ze  right,  here  .  .  .  Ach!  see  yonder, 
by  ze  gate!  Zat  old  man  in  ze  red  purple  poncho — 
haf  ze  berformers  already  begon  to  aszemble  zem- 
selves?  .  .  ." 

142 


MR.   ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

Mr.  Colt  slewed  his  body  about  in  the  saddle. 

"  Eh  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  that  's  Brother  Copas,  one  of  our 
Beauchamp  Brethren.  Mediaeval  he  looks,  doesn't 
he?  I  assure  you,  sir,  we  keep  the  genuine  article 
in  Merchester." 

"You  haf  old  men  dressed  like  zatf  .  .  .  My 
dear  Julius,  I  see  zis  Bageant  retty-made!" 

"It  was  at  St.  Hospital — the  almshouse  for  these 
old  fellows — that  the  notion  first  came  into  my 
head." 

"Sblendid!  .  .  .  We  will  haf  a  Brocession  of 
them;  or,  it  may  be,  a  whole  Ebisode.  .  .  .  Will 
you  bid  him  come  closer,  Mr.  Major,  zat  I  may 
study  ze  costume  in  its  detail?" 

"  Certainly."  Mr.  Colt  beckoned  to  Brother  Copas, 
who  came  forward  still  holding  Corona  by  the  hand. 
"Brother  Copas,  Mr.  Isidore  Bamberger  here — 
brother  of  Our  Member — desires  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance." 

"I  am  honoured,"  said  Brother  Copas  po- 
litely. 

"Ach,  sol"  burst  in  Mr.  Isidore.  "I  was  telling 
the  Major  how  moch  I  admire  zat  old  costume  of 
yours." 

"It   is   not   for   sale,   however."     Brother   Copas 
faced  the  two  Hebrews  with  his  ironical  smile.     "I 
am  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  sirs,  but  I  have  no  old 
clothes  to  dispose  of,  at  present." 
143 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"No  offence,  no  offence,  I  hope?"  put  in  Mr. 
Julius.  "My  brother,  sir,  is  an  artist — 

"Be  easy,  sir:  I  am  sure  that  he  intended  none. 
For  the  rest,"  pursued  Brother  Copas  with  a  glance 
at  Mr.  Colt  and  a  twinkle,  "if  we  had  time,  all  four 
of  us  here,  to  tell  how  by  choice  or  necessity  we  come 
to  be  dressed  as  we  are,  I  dare  say  our  stories  might 
prove  amusing  as  the  Calenders'  in  The  Arabian 
Nights." 

"You  remind  me,"  said  Mr.  Isidore,  "zat  I  at  any 
rate  must  not  keep  zese  good  Territorials  standting 
idle.  Another  time — at  your  service — 

He  waved  a  hand  and  hurried  off  to  give  an 
instruction  to  the  sergeant-major.  His  brother  fol- 
lowed and  overtook  him. 

"Damn  it  all,  Isidore!  You  might  remember  that 
Merchester  is  my  constituency,  and  my  majority  less 
than  half  a  hundred." 

"Hein?  For  what  else  am  I  here  but  to  helb  you 
to  increase  it?'* 

"Then  why  the  devil  start  by  offending  that  old 
chap  as  you  did?" 

"Eh?  I  offended  him  somehow.  Zat  is  certain: 
zough  why  on  earth  he  should  object  to  having  his 
dress  admired —  Mr.  Isidore  checked  his  speech 

upon  a  sudden  surmise.     "My  goot  Julius,  you  are 
not  telling  me  he  has  a  Vote!" 

"You  silly  fool,  of  course  he  hasl" 
144 


MR.   ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

"Gott  in  himmel!  I  am  sorry,  Julius.  ...  I 
— sobbosed,  in  England,  that  paupers — 

"State-paupers,"  *  corrected  his  brother.  "Private 
paupers,  like  the  Brethren  of  St.  Hospital,  rank  as 
tenants  of  their  living-rooms." 

"I  shall  never  gombrehend  the  instidutions  of  zis 
country,"  groaned  Mr.  Isidore. 

"Never  mind:  make  a  Pageant  of  'em,"  said  his 
brother  grimly.  "  I  '11  forgive  you  this  time,  if  you  '11 
promise  me  to  be  more  careful." 

"  I  '11  do  more,  Julius.  I  '11  get  aroundt  ze  old  boy 
somehow:  mek  him  bivot-man  in  a  brocession,  or 
something  of  the  sort.  I  got  any  amount  of  tagt, 
once  I  know  where  to  use  it." 

"  Smart  man,  Our  Member  ! "  commented  Mr. 
Colt,  gazing  after  the  pair.  "And  Mr.  Isidore  doesn't 
let  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet,  hey?" 

"Has  an  eye  for  detail,  too,"  answered  Brother 
Copas,  taking  snuff.  "  See  him  there,  upbraiding  his 
brother  for  want  of  tact  towards  a  free  and  indepen- 
dent elector.  .  .  .  But — excuse  me — for  what  purpose 
are  these  two  parcelling  out  the  Castle  Meadow?" 

"You  've  not  heard?  There  's  a  suggestion — and 
I  may  claim  some  share  in  the  credit  of  it,  if  credit 
there  be — to  hold  a  Pageant  here  next  summer,  a 

*  "  Blessed  are  the  poor,  but  there  's  no  reason  why  they  should 
have  it  both  ways.  Since  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven — the 
real  Second  Chamber — we  see  fair  by  disfranchising  them  on 
earth." — Sayings  of  Brother  Copas. 

145 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Merchester  Pageant.     Mr.   Bamberger  's  full  of   it. 
What 's  your  idea?" 

"A  capital  notion,"  said  Brother  Copas  slowly. 
"  Since  jam  pridem  Syrus  in  Tamesin  dcfluxit  Orontcs, 
I  commend  any  attempt  to  educate  Mr.  Bamberger 
and  his  tribe  in  the  history  of  this  England  they  in- 
vade. But,  as  you  say,  this  proposed  Pageant  is 
news  to  me.  I  never  seem  to  hear  any  gossip.  It 
had  not  even  reached  me,  Mr.  Chaplain,  that  you 
were  deserting  St.  Hospital  to  embrace  a  military 
career." 

"Nor  am  I.  ...  At  Cambridge  I  ever  was  an 
ardent  volunteer.  Here  in  Merchester  (though  this, 
too,  may  be  news  to  you)  I  have  for  years  identified 
myself  with  all  movements  in  support  of  national 
defence.  The  Church  Lads'  Brigade,  I  may  say, 
owed  its  inception  to  me;  likewise  the  Young  Com- 
municants' Miniature  Rifle  Association;  and  for 
three  successive  years  our  Merchester  Boy  Scouts 
have  elected  me  President  and  Scoutmaster.  It  has 
been  a  dream  of  my  life,  Brother  Copas,  to  link  up 
the  youth  of  Britain  in  preparation  to  defend  the 
Motherland,  pending  that  system  of  compulsory  na- 
tional service  which  (we  all  know)  must  eventually 
come.  And  so  when  Sir  John  Shaftesbury,  as  Chair- 
man of  our  County  Territorial  Force  Association, 
spoke  to  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  who  invited  me  to 
accept  a  majority  in  the  Mershire  Light  Infantry, 
Second  Battalion,  Territorial — 
146 


MR.   ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

"I  can  well  understand,  sir,"  said  Brother  Copas, 
as  Mr.  Colt  drew  breath;  "and  I  thank  you  for  tell- 
ing me  so  much.  No  wonder  Sir  John  enlisted  such 
energy  as  yours!  Yet — to  be  equally  frank  with  you 
— I  am  sorry." 

"You  disapprove  of  National  Service?" 

"I  approve  of  it  with  all  my  heart.  Every  young 
man  should  prepare  himself  to  fight,  at  call,  for  his 
country.  But  the  devotion  should  be  voluntary." 

"Ah,  but  suppose  our  young  men  will  not?  Sup- 
pose they  prefer  to  attend  football  matches " 

"  That,  sir — if  I  may  respectfully  suggest  it — is  your 
business  to  prevent.  And  I  might  go  on  to  suggest 
that  the  clergy,  by  preaching  compulsory  military 
service,  lay  themselves  open,  as  avowed  supporters 
of  'law  and  order/  to  a  very  natural  suspicion.  We 
will  suppose  that  you  get  your  way,  and  every  young 
Briton  is  bound,  on  summons,  to  mobilise.  We  will 
further  suppose  a  Conservative  Government  in  power, 
and  confronted  with  a  devastating  strike — shall  we  say 
a  railwaymen's  strike  ?  What  more  easy  than  to  call 
out  one  half  of  the  strikers  on  service  and  oblige  them, 
under  pain  of  treason,  to  coerce  the  other  half?* 
Do  you  suppose  that  this  nation  will  ever  forget  Houn- 
slow  Heath?" 

"Let  us,  then,"  said  Mr.  Colt,  "leave  arguing  this 

*  In  justice  to  Brother  Copas  it  should  be  recorded  that  he 
made  this  suggestion  some  time  before  M.  Briand  put  it  into 
practice  to  suppress  the  French  railway  strike  of  1910. 

147 


BROTHER  COPAS 

question  of  compulsory  national  service  until  another 
occasion,  when  I  shall  hope  to  convince  you.  For 
the  moment  you  '11  allow  it  to  be  every  man's  duty, 
as  a  citizen,  to  carry  arms  for  his  country?" 

"Every  man's,  certainly — if  by  that  you  exclude 
priests." 

"Why  exclude  priests?" 

"Because  a  priest,  playing  at  warfare,  must  needs 
be  mixing  up  things  that  differ.  As  I  see  it,  Mr.  Colt, 
your  Gospel  forbids  warfare;  and  if  you  consent  to 
follow  an  army,  your  business  is  to  hold  a  cross  above 
human  strife  and  point  the  eyes  of  the  dying  upward, 
to  rest  on  it,  thus  rebuking  men's  passions  with  a 
vision  of  life's  ultimate  peace." 

"  Yet  a  Bishop  of  Beauvais  (as  I  read)  once  thought 
it  not  unmeet  to  charge  with  a  mace  at  the  head  of  a 
troop;  and  our  own  dear  Archbishop  Maclagan  of 
York,  as  everyone  knows,  was  once  lieutenant  in  a 
cavalry  regiment!" 

"Oh,  la,  la!"  chuckled  Brother  Copas.  "Be  off, 
then,  to  your  Territorials,  Mr.  Chaplain!  I  see  Mr. 
Isidore,  yonder,  losing  his  temper  with  the  squad  as 
only  an  artist  can.  .  .  .  But — believe  an  old  man, 
dear  sir — you  on  your  horse  are  not  only  misreading 
the  Sermon  but  mistaking  the  Mount!" 

Mr.  Colt  rode  off  to  his  squad,  and  none  too  soon; 
for  the  men,  startled  by  Mr.  Isidore's  sudden  on- 
slaught of  authority  and  the  explosive  language  in 
148 


MR.  ISIDORE  TAKES  CHARGE 

which  he  ordered  them  hither  and  thither,  cursing 
one  for  his  slowness  with  the  measuring-tape,  taking 
another  by  the  shoulders  and  pushing  him  into  posi- 
tion, began  to  show  signs  of  mutiny.  Mr.  Julius 
Bamberger  mopped  a  perspiring  brow  as  he  ran  about 
vainly  trying  to  interpose. 

"Isidore,  this  is  damned  nonsense,  I  tell  you!" 
"You  leave  'em  to  me,"  panted  Mr.  Isidore. 
"Tell  me  I  don't  understand  managing  a  crowd  like 
this!  It's  part  of  ze  method,  my  goot  Julius.  Put 
ze  fear  of  ze  Lord  into  'em,  to  start  wiz.  Zey  grom- 
ble  at  first;  zen  zey  findt  zey  like  it:  in  the  endt  zey 
lof  you.  Hein?  It  is  not  for  nozzing  zey  call  me  ze 
Bageant  King!  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  and  the  child,  left  to  themselves, 
watched  these  operations  for  a  while  across  the  green- 
sward, over  which  the  elms  now  began  to  lengthen 
their  afternoon  shadows. 

"The  Chaplain  was  right,"  said  Brother  Copas. 
"Mr.  Isidore  certainly  does  not  let  the  grass  grow 
under  his  feet." 

"If  I  were  the  grass,  I  shouldn't  want  to,"  said 
Corona. 


149 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GARDEN  AND   LAUNDRY 

"THE  nasty  pigs!" 

Nurse  Branscome's  face,  usually  composed  and 
business-like  (as  a  nurse's  should  be),  was  aflush 
between  honest  shame  and  equally  honest  scorn. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Brother  Copas  soothingly. 
He  had  met  her  by  chance  in  the  ambulatory  on  her 
way  from  Brother  Bonaday's  rooms.  On  a  sudden 
resolve  he  had  told  her  of  the  anonymous  letter,  not 
showing  it,  but  conveying  (delicately  as  he  might)  its 
substance.  "To  be  sure,"  he  repeated.  "But  I  am 
thinking " 

"As  if  I  don't  know  your  thoughts!"  she  inter- 
rupted vigorously.  "You  are  thinking  that,  to  save 
scandal,  I  had  better  cease  my  attendance  on  Brother 
Bonaday,  and  hand  over  the  case  to  Nurse  Turner. 
That  I  could  do,  of  course;  and  if  he  knows  of  it, 
I  certainly  shall.  Have  you  told  him?" 

Brother  Copas  shook  his  head. 

"No.  What  is  more,  I  have  not  the  smallest  in- 
tention of  telling  him." 

150 


GARDEN  AND  LAUNDRY 

"Thank  you.   .   .   .  Oh,  but  it  is  vile — vile!" 

"So  vile  that,  believe  me,  I  had  great  difficulty  in 
telling  you." 

"I  am  sure  you  had.  ...  I  can  hand  over  the 
case  to  Nurse  Turner,  of  course;  in  fact,  it  came  on 
her  rota,  but  she  asked  me  as  a  favour  to  take  it, 
having  her  hands  full  just  then  with  Brother  Royle 
and  Brother  Dasent's  rheumatics.  It  will  be  hard, 
though,  to  give  up  the  child."  Nurse  Branscome 
flushed  again.  "  Oh,  yes — you  are  a  gentleman, 
Brother  Copas,  and  will  not  misunderstand!  I  have 
taken  a  great  liking  for  the  child,  and  she  will  ask 
questions  if  I  suddenly  desert  her.  You  see  the  fix? 
.  .  .  Besides,  Nurse  Turner — I  hope  I  am  not  be- 
coming like  one  of  these  people,  but  I  must  say  it — 
Nurse  Turner  has  not  a  nice  mind." 

"There  we  get  at  it,"  said  Brother  Copas.  "As  a 
fact,  you  were  far  from  reading  my  thoughts  just 
now.  They  did  not  (forgive  me)  concern  themselves 
with  you  or  your  wisest  line  of  conduct.  You  are  a 
grown  woman,  and  know  well  enough  that  honesty 
will  take  care  of  its  own  in  the  end.  I  was  thinking 
rather  of  Corona.  As  you  say,  she  has  laid  some  hold 
upon  the  pair  of  us.  She  has  a  pathetic  belief  in  all 
the  inmates  of  St.  Hospital — and  God  pity  us  if  our 
corruption  infects  this  child!  .  .  .  You  take  me?" 

Nurse  Branscome  looked  at  him  squarely. 

"If  I  could  save  her  from  that!" 
151 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"You  would  risk  appearances?" 

"Gladly.   .   .   .  Will  you  show  me  the  letter?" 

Brother  Copas  shook  his  head. 

"You  must  take  it  on  faith  from  me  for  a  while 
...  at  any  rate  until  I  find  out  who  in  St.  Hospital 
begins  her  'wV  with  a  curl  like  a  ram's  horn.  Did 
you  leave  the  child  with  her  father?" 

"No;  she  had  run  out  to  the  kitchen  garden. 
Since  she  has  discovered  it  she  goes  there  regularly 
twice  a  day,  morning  and  evening.  I  can't  think 
why,  and  she  won't  tell.  She  is  the  queerest  child." 

The  walled  kitchen  garden  of  St.  Hospital  lies  to 
the  south,  between  the  back  of  the  "Nunnery"  and 
the  River  Mere.  It  can  be  reached  from  the  ambula- 
tory by  a  dark,  narrow  tunnel  under  the  nurses' 
lodgings.  The  Brethren  never  went  near  it.  For 
years  old  Battershall,  the  gardener,  had  dug  there  in 
solitude — day  in,  day  out — and  had  grown  his  veg- 
etables, hedged  in  from  all  human  intercourse,  nor 
grumbling  at  his  lot. 

Corona,  exploring  the  precincts,  had  discovered  this 
kitchen  garden,  found  it  to  her  mind,  and  thereafter 
made  free  of  it  with  the  cheerfullest  insouciance. 
The  dark  tunnel,  to  begin  with,  put  her  in  mind  of 
some  adventure  in  a  fairy  tale  she  could  not  recall; 
but  it  opened  of  a  sudden  and  enchantingly  upon 
sunshine  and  beds  of  onions,  parsley,  cabbages,  with 
152 


GARDEN  AND  LAUNDRY 

pale  yellow  butterflies  hovering.  Old  Battershall,  too, 
though  taciturn,  was  obviously  not  displeased  by  her 
visits.  He  saw  that  while  prying  here  and  there — 
especially  among  the  parsley  beds,  for  what  reason 
he  could  not  guess — the  child  stole  no  fruit,  did  no 
harm.  She  trampled  nothing.  She  lifted  no  leaf  to 
harm  it.  When  she  stopped  to  speak  with  him  her 
talk  was  "just  nonsense,  you  know."  Unconsciously, 
by  the  end  of  the  third  day  he  had  looked  up  twice 
or  thrice  from  his  delving,  asking  himself  why  she 
was  late. 

And  what  (do  you  suppose)  did  Corona  seek  in  the 
kitchen  garden?  She  too,  unknowing,  was  lonely. 
Unknowing,  this  child  felt  a  need  for  children,  com- 
panions. Uncle  Copas's  doll — well  meant  and  priced 
at  Is.  3d. — had  somehow  missed  to  engage  her  affec- 
tions. She  could  not  tell  him  so,  but  she  hated  it. 

Like  every  woman-child  of  her  age  she  was  curious 
about  babies.  She  had  heard,  over  in  America,  that 
babies  came  either  at  early  morning  or  at  shut  of  eve, 
and  were  to  be  found  in  parsley  beds.  Now  old  Mr. 
Battershall  grew  parsley  to  make  you  proud.  At 
the  Merchester  Rural  Gardening  Show  he  regularly 
took  first  prize;  his  potting-shed,  in  the  north-east 
angle  of  the  wall,  was  papered  with  winning  tickets 
from  bench  to  roof.  At  first  when  he  saw  Corona 
moving  about  the  bed,  lifting  the  parsley  leaves,  he 
had  a  mind  to  chide  her  away;  for,  as  he  put  it, 
153 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  Children  and  chicken  be  always  a-pickin' — the  mis- 
chief 's  in  their  natur'."  Finding,  however,  that  she 
did  no  damage,  yet  harked  back  to  the  parsley  again 
and  again,  he  set  her  down  for  an  unusually  intelligent 
child,  who  somehow  knew  good  gardening  when  she 
saw  it. 

"Glad  to  see  you  admirin'  it,  missie,"  he  said  one 
morning,  coming  up  behind  her  unperceived. 

Corona,  in  the  act  of  upturning  a  leaf,  started  and 
drew  back  her  hand.  Babies — she  could  not  tell 
why — made  their  appearance  in  this  world  by  stealth, 
and  must  be  searched  for  furtively. 

"A  mort  o'  prizes  I  've  took  with  that  there  parsley 
one  time  and  another,"  pursued  Mr.  Battershall,  not 
perceiving  the  flush  of  guilt  on  her  face  (for  his  eye- 
sight was,  in  his  own  words,  not  so  young  as  it  used 
to  be).  "  Goodbody's  Curly  Mammoth  is  the  strain, 
and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it,  for  the  secret 's  not  in 
the  strain,  but  in  the  way  o'  raisin'  it.  I  grows  for  a 
succession,  too.  Summer  or  winter  these  six-an'- 
twenty  years  St.  Hospital 's  ne'er  been  without  a  fine 
bed  o'  parsley,  I  thank  the  Lord!" 

Six-and-twenty  years.  ...  It  was  comforting  in  a 
way  to  know  that  parsley  grew  here  all  the  seasons 
round.  But — six-and-twenty  years,  and  not  one 
child  in  the  place  save  herself,  who  had  come  over 
from  America!  Yet  Mr.  Battershall  was  right  ;  it 
seemed  excellent  parsley. 

154 


GARDEN  AND   LAUNDRY 

"You  don't  find  that  anything  comes  and — and 

takes  away "  she  hazarded,  but  came  to  a  full 

stop. 

"  There  's  slugs,"  answered  Mr.  Battershall  stolidly, 
"  and  there  's  snails.  Terrible  full  o'  snails  the  old 
wall  was  till  I  got  the  Master  to  repoint  it." 

"Would  snails " 

"  Eh  ?  "   he  asked  as  she  hesitated. 

"They  might  take  away  the — the  flowers,  for  in- 
stance." 

Old  Battershall  guffawed. 

"  You  wasn'  sarchin'  for  flowers,  was  you  ?  Dang 
me,  but  that 's  a  good  un!  .  .  .  I  don't  raise  my  own 
seed,  missie,  if  that's  your  meanin';  an'  that  bein* 
so,  he  'd  have  to  get  up  early  as  would  find  a  flower  in 
my  parsley." 

Ah,  this  might  explain  it!  As  she  eyed  him,  her 
childish  mind  searching  the  mystery,  yet  keeping  its 
own  secret,  Corona  resolved  to  steal  down  to  the 
garden  one  of  these  fine  mornings  very  early  indeed. 

"  Now  I  '11  tell  you  something  about  parsley,"  said 
Mr.  Battershall;  "something  very  curious,  and  yet 
it  must  be  true,  for  I  heard  the  Master  tell  it  in  one 
of  his  sermons.  The  ancients,  by  which  I  mean  the 
Greeks,  set  amazin'  store  by  the  yerb.  There  was  a 
kind  of  Athletic  Sports — sort  of  Crystal  Palace  meetin' 
— the  great  event,  as  you  might  say,  and  attractin'  to 

sportsmen  all  over  Greece " 

155 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Mover  what?" 

"Greece.  Which  is  a  country,  missy,  or,  at  any 
rate,  was  so.  The  meeting  was  held  every  four 
years;  and  what  d'ye  suppose  was  the  top  prize,  an- 
swerin',  as  you  may  say,  to  the  Championship  Cup? 
Why,  a  wreath  o'  parsley!  'Garn!'  says  you.  And 
'Parsley!'  says  you.  Which  a  whole  wreath  of  it 
might  cost  fivepence  at  the  outside.  .  .  ." 

Now  Corona,  whose  mind  was  ever  picking  up  and 
hoarding  such  trifles,  had  heard  Uncle  Copas  two 
days  before  drop  a  remark  that  the  Greeks  knew 
everything  worth  knowing.  Plainly,  then,  the  parsley 
held  some  wonderful  secret  after  all.  She  must  con- 
trive to  outwit  old  Battershall,  and  get  to  the  garden 
ahead  of  him,  which  would  not  be  easy,  by  the  way. 

To  begin  with,  on  these  summer  mornings  old 
Battershall  rose  with  the  lark,  and  boasted  of  it;  and, 
furthermore,  the  door  of  her  father's  bedroom  stood 
open  all  night.  To  steal  abroad  she  must  pass  it, 
and  he  was  the  lightest  of  sleepers.  She  did  not  in- 
tend to  be  beaten,  though;  and  meanwhile  she 
punctually  visited  the  parsley  morning  and  evening. 

Heaven  knows  how  the  day-dream  came  to  take 
possession  of  her.  She  was  not  consciously  lonely. 
She  worshipped  this  marvellous  new  home.  Some- 
times in  her  rambles  she  had  to  pinch  herself  to  make 
sure  this  was  all  really  happening.  But  always  in 
her  rambles  she  saw  St.  Hospital  peopled  with  chil- 
15G 


GARDEN  AND   LAUNDRY 

dren — boys,  girls,  and  little  toddlers — chasing  one 
another  across  the  lawns,  laughing  at  hide-and-seek 
in  the  archways,  bruising  no  flower-bed,  filling  old 
souls  with  glee.  They  were  her  playmates,  these 
innocents  of  her  fancy,  the  long  day  through.  At 
evening  in  her  prayers  she  called  them  home,  and 
they  came  reluctant — 

"No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day 

And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep; 
Besides,  in  the  sky  the  little  birds  fly 
And  the  hills  are  all  covered  with  sheep." 

The  tunnel  was  populous  with  them  as  she  passed 
through  it  from  the  garden  to  the  ambulatory,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  tunnel  she  came  plump  upon  Branny 
and  Uncle  Copas  in  converse.  They  started  guiltily. 

"  I  've  been  looking  for  you  this  half-hour,"  said 
Brother  Copas,  recovering  himself.  "Didn't  a  cer- 
tain small  missy  make  an  appointment  with  me  to 
be  shown  the  laundry  and  its  wonders?  And  isn't 
this  Tuesday — ironing  day?" 

"You  promised  to  show  it  to  me  some  time,"  an- 
swered Corona,  who  was  punctilious  in  small  matters; 
"  but  you  never  fixed  any  time  in  p'tic'lar." 

"  Oh,  then  I  must  have  made  the  appointment  with 
myself!  Never  mind;  come  along  now,  if  you  can 
spare  the  time." 

157 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Nurse  Branscome  nodded  and  left  them,  turning 
in  at  the  stairway  which  led  to  her  quarters  in  the 
Nunnery.  At  the  foot  of  it  she  paused  to  call  after 
them — 

"Mind,  Corona  is  not  to  be  late  for  her  tea!  I  've 
invited  myself  this  evening,  and  there  is  to  be  a  plum 
cake  in  honour  of  the  occasion." 

Brother  Copas  and  Corona  passed  down  the  ambu- 
latory and  by  the  porter's  lodge  to  the  outer  court. 
Of  a  sudden,  within  a  few  paces  of  the  laundry, 
Brother  Copas  halted  to  listen. 

"  You  had  better  stop  here  for  a  moment,"  he  said, 
and  walked  forward  to  the  laundry  door,  the  hasp  of 
which  he  lifted  after  knocking  sharply  with  his  staff. 
He  threw  the  door  open  and  looked  in,  surveying  the 
scene  with  an  angry  disgust. 

"Hallo!  More  abominations ?"  exclaimed  Brother 
Copas. 

The  quarrel  had  started  in  the  forenoon  over  a 
dirty  trick  played  by  Brother  Clerihew,  the  ex-butler. 
(Brother  Clerihew  had  a  name  for  underhand  practice; 
indeed,  his  inability  to  miss  a  chance  of  it  had  cost 
him  situation  after  situation,  and  finally  landed  him 
in  St.  Hospital.)  This  time  he  had  played  it  upon 
poor  old  doddering  Brother  Ibbetson.  Finding  Ib- 
betson  in  the  porter's  gateway,  with  charge  of  a  lu- 
crative-looking tourist  and  in  search  of  the  key  of  the 
158 


GARDEN  AND   LAUNDRY 

Relique  Room,  he  noted  that  the  key,  usually  handed 
out  by  Porter  Manby,  hung  on  a  hook  just  within  the 
doorway;  but  old  Ibbetson,  being  purblind,  could 
not  see  it,  or  at  all  events  could  not  recognise  it,  and 
Manby  happened  to  be  away  at  the  brewhouse  on 
some  errand  connected  with  the  Wayfarers'  Dole. 
Brother  Clerihew,  who  had  left  him  there,  sent  Ibbet- 
son off  on  a  chase  in  the  wrong  direction,  loitered 
around  for  a  couple  of  minutes  chatting  about  the 
weather,  and  then,  with  a  remark  that  it  was  shame- 
ful to  keep  gentlefolks  waiting  so,  looked  casually  in 
at  the  doorway. 

"Why  the  key  is  here  all  the  time!"  he  exclaimed. 
"  If  you  are  in  any  hurry,  sir,  permit  me  to  take 
Brother  Ibbetson's  place,  and  show  you  round.  Oh," 
he  added  falsely,  seeing  the  visitor  hesitate,  "it  won't 
hurt  him  at  all!  I  don't  like  to  mention  it,  but  any 
small  gratuities  bestowed  on  the  Brethren  are  carried 
to  a  common  fund." 

Ibbetson,  harking  back  from  a  vain  search  to  find 
his  bird  had  flown,  encountered  Porter  Manby  re- 
turning with  Brother  Warboise  from  the  brewhouse, 
and  tremulously  opened  up  his  distress. 

"  Eh  ?  "  snapped  Warboise,  after  exchanging  glances 
with  the  Porter.  "  Clerihew  said  Manby  was  in  the 
kitchen,  did  he?  But  he  'd  left  us  at  the  brewhouse 
not  a  minute  before." 

"And  the  key!  gone  from  the  hook!"  chimed  in 
159 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Porter  Manby,  "  where  I  '11  swear  I  left  it.  This  is 
one  of  Clerihew's  monkeyings,  you  bet." 

"I'll  monkey  him,"  growled  Brother  Warboise. 

The  three  kept  sentry,  knowing  that  Clerihew  must 
sooner  or  later  return  with  his  convoy,  there  being 
no  other  exit.  When  at  length  he  hove  in  sight  with 
his  convoy  his  face  wore  an  uneasy,  impudent  smile. 
He  was  the  richer  by  half-a-crown.  They  stood 
aside  and  let  him  brazen  it  past  them;  but  Manby 
and  Ibbetson  were  still  waiting  for  him  as  he  came 
back  alone.  Ibbetson  was  content  with  a  look  of  re- 
proach. Manby  told  him  fair  and  straight  that  he 
was  a  swindling  cur.  But  meanwhile  Warboise  had 
stumped  off  and  told  Ibbetson's  wife.  This  done, 
he  hurried  off,  and  catching  Clerihew  by  the  steps  of 
the  Hundred  Men's  Hall,  threatened  the  rogue  with 
his  staff.  Manby  caught  them  in  altercation,  the  one 
aiming  impotent  blows,  the  other  evading  them  still 
with  his  shameless  grin,  and  separated  them.  Brother 
Ibbetson  looked  on,  feebly  wringing  his  hands. 

But  Mrs.  Ibbetson  was  worth  three  of  her  husband, 
and  a  notorious  scold.  In  the  laundry,  later  on,  she 
announced  within  earshot  of  Mrs.  Clerihew  that,  as 
was  well  beknown,  Clerihew  had  lost  his  last  three 
places  for  bottle-stealing;  and  Mrs.  Royle,  acknowl- 
edged virago  of  St.  Hospital,  took  up  the  accusation 
and  blared  it  obscenely.  For  a  good  five  minutes 
the  pair  mauled  Mrs.  Clerihew,  who,  with  an  air  of 
ICO 


GARDEN  AND  LAUNDRY 

high  gentility,  went  on  ironing  shirts.  She  had  been 
a  lady's  maid  when  Clerihew  married  her,  and  could 
command,  as  a  rule,  a  high-bred,  withering  sneer. 
Unhappily,  the  united  attack  of  Mrs.  Ibbetson  and 
Mrs.  Royle  goaded  her  so  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
breeding  that  of  a  sudden  she  upped  and  called  the 
latter  a  bitch;  whereupon,  feeling  herself  committed, 
this  ordinarily  demure  woman  straightened  her  spine 
and  followed  up  the  word  with  a  torrent  of  filthy  in- 
vective that  took  the  whole  laundry  aback. 

Her  success  was  but  momentary.  Mrs.  Royle  had 
a  character  to  maintain.  Fetching  a  gasp,  she  let 
fly  the  dirtiest  word  one  woman  can  launch  at  another, 
and  on  the  instant  made  a  grab  at  Mrs.  Clerihew's 
brow.  ...  It  was  a  matter  of  notoriety  in  St.  Hospi- 
tal that  Mrs.  Clerihew  wore  a  false  "front."  The 
thing  came  away  in  Mrs.  Royle's  clutch,  and  amid 
shrieks  of  laughter  Mrs.  Royle  tossed  it  to  Mrs. 
Ibbetson,  who  promptly  clapped  down  a  hot  flat-iron 
upon  it.  The  spectators  rocked  with  helpless  mirth 
as  the  poor  woman  strove  to  cover  her  bald  brows, 
while  the  thing  hissed  and  shrivelled  to  nothing,  emit- 
ting an  acrid  odour  beneath  the  relentless  flat-iron. 

"Ladies!  ladies!"  commanded  Brother  Copas. 
"A  visitor,  if  you  please!" 

The  word — as  always  in  St.  Hospital — instantly 
commanded  a  hush.  The  women  fled  back  to  their 
tables,  and  started  ironing,  goffering,  crimping  for 
161 


BROTHER  COPAS 

dear  life,  with  irons  hot  and  cold.  Brother  Copas, 
with  a  chuckle,  leant  back  and  beckoned  Corona  in 
from  the  yard. 

At  sight  of  her  on  the  threshold  Mrs.  Royle  broke 
into  a  coarse  laugh.  It  found  no  echo,  and  died  away 
half-heartedly.  For  one  thing,  there  might  yet  be  a 
real  visitor  behind  the  child;  for  another,  these  women 
stood  in  some  little  awe  of  Brother  Copas,  who  paid 
well  for  his  laundry-work,  never  mixed  himself  up 
with  gossip,  and  moreover  had  a  formidable  trick  of 
lifting  his  hat  whenever  he  passed  one  of  these  vira- 
goes, and  after  a  glance  at  her  face,  fixing  an  amused 
stare  at  her  feet.* 

"Pardon  me,  ladies,"  said  he;  "but  my  small 
laundry-work  has  hitherto  gone,  as  you  know,  to 
old  Mrs.  Vigurs  in  St.  Faith's  Road.  Last  week  she 
sent  me  word  that  she  could  not  longer  undertake  it, 
the  fact  being  that  she  has  just  earned  her  Old  Age 
Pension  and  is  retiring  upon  it.  I  come  to  ask  if  one 
of  you  will  condescend  to  take  her  place  and  oblige 
me." 

He  paused,  tasting  the  fun  of  it.  As  he  well  knew, 
they  all  feared  and  hated  him  for  his  trick  of  irony; 
but  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  them  desired  his  custom, 
for  in  St.  Hospital  (where  nothing  escaped  notice) 

*  "  On  meeting  an  objectionable  woman,  stare  at  her  feet  and 
smile.  This  never  misses  to  disconcert  her." — Axioms  of  Brother 
Copas. 

162 


GARDEN  AND   LAUNDRY 

Brother  Copas's  fastidious  extravagance  in  body- 
linen  and  his  punctuality  in  discharging  small  debts 
were  matters  of  common  knowledge.  Moreover,  in 
their  present  mood  each  of  these  women  saw  a  chance 
of  spiting  another  by  depriving  her  of  the  job. 

Brother  Copas  eyed  them  with  an  amiable  smile. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "don't  all  speak  at  once!  .  .  . 
I  '11  not  ask  you  to  bid  for  my  little  contract  just  now 
when  I  see  you  are* all  so  busy.  But  seriously,  I  invite 
tenders,  and  will  ask  any  one  of  you  who  cares  for  my 
custom  to  send  me  (say  by  to-morrow  evening)  a  list 
of  her  prices  in  a  sealed  envelope,  each  envelope  to 
bear  the  words  '  Washing  List'  in  an  upper  corner, 
that  I  may  put  all  the  tenders  aside  and  open  them 
together.  Eh?  What  do  you  say,  ladies?" 

"I  shall  be  happy  for  one,"  said  Mrs.  Clerihew, 
laying  stress  on  the  aspirate.  She  always  was  careful 
of  this,  having  lived  with  gentlefolks.  She  burned 
to  know  if  Brother  Copas  had  heard  her  call  Mrs. 
Royle  a  bitch.  Mrs.  Royle  (to  do  her  justice)  when 
enraged  recked  neither  what  she  said  nor  who  over- 
heard. But  Mrs.  Clerihew,  between  her  lapses,  clung 
passionately  to  gentility  and  the  world's  esteem.  She 
was  conscious,  moreover,  that  without  her  false 
"front"  she  must  be  looking  a  fright.  ...  In  short,- 
the  wretched  woman  rushed  into  speech  because  for 
the  moment  anything  was  more  tolerable  than  silence. 

"I  thank  yo-     ma'am." 

163 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Neither  voice  nor  look  betrayed  that  Brother  Copas 
had  overheard  or  perceived  anything  amiss. 

Mrs.  Clerihew,  baffled,  began  desperately  to  curry 
favour. 

"  And  you  've  brought  Brother  Bonaday's  pretty 
child,  I  see.  .  .  .  Step  over  here,  my  dear,  and  watch 
me — when  I  've  heated  this  iron.  '  Crimping,'  they 
call  it,  and  I  've  done  it  for  titled  folks  in  my  time. 
One  of  these  days,  I  -hope,  you  '11  be  going  into  good 
service  yourself.  There  's  nothing  like  it  for  picking 
up  manners." 

She  talked  for  talking's  sake,  in  a  carneying  tone, 
while  her  bosom  still  heaved  from  the  storm  of  battle. 

Mrs.  Royle  attempted  a  ribald  laugh,  but  it  met 
with  no  success,  and  her  voice  died  down  under  a  dis- 
approving hush. 

Mrs.  Clerihew  talked  on,  gaining  confidence.  She 
crimped  beautifully,  and  this  was  the  more  remark- 
able because  (as  Corona  noted)  her  hand  shook  all  the 
while. 

In  short,  the  child  had,  as  she  put  it,  quite  a  good 
time. 

When  it  was  time  to  be  going  she  thanked  Mrs. 
Clerihew  very  prettily,  and  walked  back  with  Brother 
Copas  to  her  father's  room.  They  found  Nurse 
Branscome  there  and  the  table  already  laid  for  tea; 
there  was  a  plum  cake,  too. 

After  tea  Branny  told  them  all  very  gravely  that 
164 


GARDEN  AND  LAUNDRY 

this  must  be  her  last  visit.  She  was  giving  over  the 
care  of  Corona's  father  to  Nurse  Turner,  whose 
"case"  it  had  really  been  from  the  first.  She  ex- 
plained that  the  nurses,  unless  work  were  extra  heavy, 
had  to  take  their  patients  in  a  certain  order,  by  what 
she  called  a  rota. 

"  But  he  's  bettering  every  day  now,  so  I  don't 
mind."  She  nodded  cheerfully  towards  Brother  Bon- 
aday,  and  then,  seeing  that  Corona's  face  was  woe- 
begone, she  added:  "But  you  will  often  be  running 
across  to  the  Nunnery  to  see  me.  Besides,  I  've 
brought  a  small  parting  gift  to  console  you." 

She  unwrapped  a  paper  parcel,  and  held  out  a 
black  boy-doll,  a  real  Golliwog,  with  white  shirt  but- 
tons for  eyes  and  hair  of  black  Berlin  wool. 

"Oh,  Branny!" 

Corona,  after  holding  the  Golliwog  a  moment  in 
outstretched  hands,  strained  it  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Branny!  And  till  this  moment  I  didn't 
know  how  much  I  've  wanted  him!" 


165 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BROTHER  COPAS  ON  THE  HOUSE   OF  LORDS 

ALL  love  being  a  mystery,  I  see  no  reason  to  speculate 
how  or  why  it  came  to  pass  that  Corona,  who  already 
possessed  two  pink  and  waxen  girl-dolls,  and  treated 
them  with  the  merest  contempt,  took  this  black  mani- 
kin of  a  Golliwog  straight  to  her  heart  to  share  its 
innermost  confidences. 

It  happened  so,  and  there's  no  more  to  be  said. 
Next  morning  Corona  paid  an  early  call  at  the  Nur- 
sery. 

"I  'm  afraid,"  she  said  in  her  best  society  manner, 
"this  is  a  perfeckly  ridiklous  hour.  But  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  Timothy  in  a  way,  aren't  you?" 

"Timothy?"   echoed  Nurse  Branscome. 

"Oh,  I  forgot!"  Corona  patted  the  red-trousered 
legs  of  the  Golliwog,  which  she  held,  not  as  little  girls 
usually  hold  dolls,  but  tucked  away  under  her  armpit. 
"Timothy  's  his  name,  though  I  mean  to  call  him 
Timmy  for  short.  But  the  point  is,  he  's  becoming 
rather  a  question." 

"In  what  way?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  have  to  take  him  to  bed  with  me. 
160 


ON  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

He  insists  on  it,  which  is  all  very  well,"  continued 
Corona,  nodding  sagely,  "  but  one  can't  allow  it  in  the 
same  clothes  day  and  night.  It 's  like  what  Uncle 
Copas  says  of  Brother  Plant's  linen;  it  positively  isn't 
sanitary." 

"I  see,"  said  Branny,  laughing.  "You  want  me  to 
make  a  change  of  garments  for  him?" 

"  I  've  examined  him,"  answered  Corona.  "  There's 
a  stitch  here  and  there,  but  on  the  whole  he  '11  un- 
button quite  easily;  only  I  didn't  like  to  do  it  until  I'd 
consulted  you.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  want  you  to  bother 
about  the  clothes,  if  you  '11  only  show  me  how  to  cut 
out.  I  can  sew  quite  nicely.  Mamma  taught  me. 
I  was  making  a  sampler  all  through  her  illness — Cor- 
ona Bonaday,  Aged  Six  Years  and  Three  Months;  then 
the  big  and  little  ABC,  and  the  numbers  up  to  ten; 
after  that  the  Lord's  Prayer  down  to  Forgive  us  our 
trespasses.  When  we  got  to  that  she  died.  ...  I 
want  to  begin  with  a  suit  of  pajamas — no,  I  forgot; 
they  're  pajamas  over  here.  Whatever  happens,  I  do 
want  him  to  be  a  gentleman,"  concluded  Corona 
earnestly. 

The  end  was  that  Nurse  Branscome  hunted  up  a 
piece  of  coloured  flannel,  and  Master  Timothy  that 
same  evening  was  stripped  to  indue  a  pyjama  suit. 
Corona  carried  him  thus  attired  off  to  her  bed  in 
triumph — but  not  to  sleep.  Brother  Bonaday,  lying 
awake,  heard  her  voice  running  on  and  on  in  a  rapid 
167 


BROTHER  COPAS 

monotone.     Ten  o'clock  struck,  and  he  could  endure 
the  sound  no  longer.     It  seemed  to  him  that  she  must 
be  rambling  in  delirium,  and  slipping  on  his  dressing- 
gown,  he  stole  to  her  chamber  door. 
"Cannot  you  get  to  sleep,  little  maid?" 
"Is  that  you  daddy?"   answered  Corona.     "I  am 
so  sorry,  but  Timmy  and  I  have  been  arguing.     He  's 
such  a  queer  child;    he  has  a  lingering  belief  in  the 
House  of  Lords!" 

"Now  I  wonder  how  she  gets  at  that?"  mused 
Brother  Bonaday  when  he  reported  the  saying  to 
Copas. 

"Very  simply  we  shall  find;  but  you  must  give  me 
a  minute  or  so  to  think  it  out." 

"  To  be  sure,  with  her  American  up-bringing  there 
might  naturally  grow  an  instinctive  disrespect  for  the 
hereditary  principle." 

"  I  have  not  observed  that  disrespect  in  Americans," 
answered  Brother  Copas  dryly.  "  But  we  '11  credit  it 
to  them  if  you  will;  and  there  at  once  you  have  a 
capital  reason  why  our  little  Miss  Bull  should  worship 
the  House  of  Lords  as  a  fetish — whereas,  it  appears, 
she  doesn't." 

"It  's  the  queerer  because,  when  it  comes  to  the 
King,  she  worships  the  'accident  of  birth,1  as  you 
might  call  it.     To  her  King  Edward  is  nothing  less 
than  the  Lord's  Anointed." 
168 


ON  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

"Quite  so.  ...  But  please,  my  dear  fellow,  don't 
clap  into  my  mouth  that  silliest  of  phrases.  'Accident 
of  birth!'  I  once  heard  parturition  pleaded  as  an  ac- 
cident— by  a  servant  girl  in  trouble.  Funny  sort  of 
accident,  hey  ?  Does  ever  anyone — did  she,  your  own 
daughter,  for  example — come  into  this  world  fortu- 
itously?" 

Brother  Copas,  taking  snuff,  did  not  perceive  the 
twitch  of  his  friend's  face.  His  question  seemed  to 
pluck  Brother  Bonaday  up  short,  as  though  with  the 
jerk  of  an  actual  rope. 

"  May  be,"  he  harked  back  vaguely,  "  it 's  just 
caprice — the  inconsequence  of  a  child's  mind — the 
mystery  of  it,  some  would  say." 

"  Fiddlestick-end !  There  's  as  much  mystery  in 
Corona  as  in  the  light  of  day  about  us  at  this  moment; 
just  so  much  and  no  more.  If  anything,  she  's  deadly 
logical;  when  her  mind  puzzles  us  it's  never  by 
hocus-pocus,  but  simply  by  swiftness  in  operation. 
...  I  've  learnt  that  much  of  the  one  female  child 
it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  observe;  and  the  Lord  may 
allow  me  to  enjoy  the  success  towards  the  close  of  a 
life  largely  spent  in  misunderstanding  boys.  Stay 
a  moment "  Brother  Copas  stood  with  corru- 
gated brow.  "I  have  it!  I  remember  now  that  she 
asked  me,  two  days  ago,  if  I  didn't  think  it  disgusting 
that  so  many  of  our  English  Peers  went  and  married 
American  heiresses  merely  for  their  money.  Prob- 
169 


BROTHER  COPAS 

ably  she  supposes  that  on  these  means  our  ancient 
nobility  mainly  finances  itself.  She  amused  me,  too, 
by  her  obvious  reluctance  to  blame  the  men.  'Of 
course/  she  said,  '  the  real  fault  is  the  women's,  or 
would  be  if  they  knew  what 's  decent.  But  you  can't 
expect  anything  of  them;  they  've  had  no  nurture.' 
That  was  her  word.  So  being  a  just  child,  she  has  to 
wonder  how  Englishmen  'with  nurture'  can  so  de- 
mean themselves  to  get  money.  In  short,  my  friend, 
your  daughter — for  love  of  us  both  maybe — is  taking 
our  picturesqueness  too  honestly.  She  inclines  to  find 
a  merit  of  its  own  in  poverty.  It  is  high  time  we  sent 
her  to  school." 

It  was  high  time,  as  Brother  Bonaday  knew;  if 
only  because  every  child  in  England  nowadays  is 
legally  obliged  to  be  educated,  and  the  local  attend- 
ance officer  (easily  excused  though  he  might  be  for 
some  delay  in  detecting  the  presence  of  a  child  of  alien 
birth  in  so  unlikely  a  spot  as  St.  Hospital)  would 
surely  be  on  Corona's  track  before  long.  But  Brother 
Bonaday  hated  the  prospect  of  sending  her  to  the 
parish  school,  while  he  possessed  no  money  to  send 
her  to  a  better.  Moreover,  he  obeyed  a  lifelong  in- 
stinct in  shying  away  from  the  call  to  decide. 

"  But  we  were  talking  about  the  House  of  Lords," 
he  suggested  feebly.  "  The  hereditary  principle — 

Brother  Copas  inhaled  his  snuff,  sideways  eyeing 
this  friend  whose  weakness  he  understood  to  a  hair's 
170 


ON  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

breadth.  But  he,  too,  had  his  weakness — that  of 
yielding  to  be  led  away  by  dialectic  on  the  first  temp- 
tation. 

"Aye,  to  be  sure.  The  hereditary — principle,  did 
you  say  ?  My  dear  fellow,  the  House  of  Lords  never 
had  such  a  principle.  The  hereditary  right  to  legis- 
late slipped  in  by  the  merest  slant  of  a  side  wind, 
and  in  its  origin  was  just  a  handy  expedient  of  the  sort 
so  dear  to  our  Constitution,  logically  absurd,  but  in 
practice  saving  no  end  of  friction  and  dispute." 

"You  will  grant  at  any  rate  that,  having  once 
adopted  it,  the  Lords  exalted  it  to  rank  as  a  principle." 

"  Yes,  and  for  a  time  with  amazing  success.  That 
was  their  capital  error.  .  .  .  Have  you  never  ob- 
served, my  good  Bonaday,  how  fatally  miracles  come 
home  to  roost?  Jonah  spends  three  days  and  three 
nights  in  the  whale's  belly — why?  Simply  to  get  his 
tale  believed.  Credo  quia  impossibile  seldom  misses  to 
work  well  for  a  while.  He  doesn't  foresee,  poor  fellow, 
that  what  makes  his  fortune  with  one  generation  of 
men  will  wreck  his  credit  with  another.  ...  So  with 
the  House  of  Lords — though  here  a  miracle  trium- 
phantly pointed  out  as  happening  under  men's  eyes 
was  never  really  happening  at  all.  That  in  the  loins 
of  every  titled  legislator  should  lie  the  germ  of  another 
is  a  miracle  (I  grant  you)  of  the  first  order,  and  may 
vie  with  Jonah's  sojourn  in  the  whale's  belly;  nay,  it 
deserved  an  even  longer  run  for  its  money,  since  it 
171 


BROTHER  COPAS 

persuaded  people  that  they  saw  the  miraculous  suc- 
cession. But  nature  was  taking  care  all  the  time  that 
it  never  happened.  Actually  our  peerages  have  per- 
ished, and  new  ones  have  been  born  at  an  astonishing 
rate;  about  half  of  them  at  this  moment  are  younger 
than  the  great  Reform  Bill.  A  shrewd  American  re- 
marked the  other  day,  that  while  it  is  true  enough  a 
son  may  not  inherit  his  father's  ability,  yet  if  the  son 
of  a  Rothschild  can  keep  the  money  his  father  made 
he  must  in  these  days  of  liquid  securities  be  a  pretty 
able  fellow.  Weaklings  (added  my  American)  don't 
last  long,  at  any  rate  in  our  times.  '  God  and  Nature 
turn  out  the  incompetents  almost  as  quickly  as  would 
the  electorate.'  .  .  .  But  my  point  is  that  the  House 
of  Lords,  having  in  the  past  exploited  this  supposed 
miracle  for  all  it  was  worth,  are  now  (if  the  Liberals 
have  any  sense)  to  be  faced  with  the  overdraft  which 
every  miracle  leaves  to  be  paid  sooner  or  later.  The 
longer-headed  among  the  Peers  perceived  this  some 
years  ago;  they  all  see  it  now,  and  are  tumbling  over 
each  other  in  their  haste  to  dodge  the  'hereditary 
principle'  somehow.  It  is  for  the  Liberals  to  hold 
them  firmly  to  the  dear  old  miracle  and  rub  their  noses 
in  it.  So,  and  so  only,  will  this  electorate  of  ours 
rid  itself,  under  a  misapprehension,  of  a  real  peril, 
to  which,  if  able  to  see  the  thing  in  its  true  form 
and  dimensions,  it  would  in  all  likelihood  yield  itself 
grovelling." 

172 


ON  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS 

"Eh?     I  don't  follow " 

"  I  tell  you,  Bonaday,  the  House  of  Lords  is  in  fact 
no  hereditary  curse  at  all.  What  the  devil  has  it  to 
do  with  the  claims  of  old  descent?  Does  it  contain  a 
man  whose  ancestor  ever  saw  Agincourt?  Bankers, 
brewers,  clothiers,  mine-owners,  company-promoters, 
journalists — our  Upper  House  to-day  is  a  compact, 
fairly  well-selected  body  of  men  who  have  pushed  to 
success  over  their  fellows.  Given  such  a  body  of 
supermen,  well  agreed  among  themselves,  and  know- 
ing what  they  want,  supplied  with  every  temptation 
to  feed  on  the  necessities  of  the  weak,  armed  with  ex- 
travagant legal  powers,  even  fortified  with  a  philosophy 
in  the  sham  Darwin  doctrine  that,  with  nations  as  with 
men,  the  poverty  of  one  is  the  wealth  of  another — 
there,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  a  menace  against  which, 
could  they  realise  it,  all  moderate  citizens  would  be 
fighting  for  their  lives.  .  .  .  But  it  is  close  upon  din- 
ner-time, and  I  refuse  to  extend  these  valuable  but 
parenthetical  remarks  on  the  House  of  Lords  one 
whit  further  to  please  your  irresolution.  ...  It  's 
high  time  Corona  went  to  school." 

"  I  have  not  been  well  lately,  as  you  know,  Brother. 
I  meant  all  along,  as  soon  as  I  picked  up  my  strength 
again,  to " 

"Tilly  vally,  tilly  vally!"  snapped  Brother  Copas. 
"Since  we  are  making  excuses  shall  we  add  that, 
without  admitting  ourselves  to  be  snobs,  we  have  re- 
173 


BROTHER  COPAS 

marked  a  certain  refinement — a  delicacy  of  mind — in 
Corona,  and  doubt  if  the  bloom  of  it  will  survive  the 
rough  contact  of  a  public  elementary  school?  .  .  . 
Come,  I  've  thought  of  that,  as  a  godfather  should. 
You  're  aware  that,  a  couple  of  years  ago,  a  small 
legacy  dropped  in  upon  me — a  trifling  windfall  of  ten 
guineas  a  year.  Well,  I  've  been  wasting  it  on  luxu- 
ries— a  few  books  I  don't  read,  a  more  expensive 
brand  of  tobacco,  which  really  is  no  better  than  the 
old  shag,  some  extra  changes  of  body  linen.  Now 
since  the  Education  Act  of  1902  the  fees  in  the  public 
secondary  day  schools  have  been  cut  down  to  a  figure 
quite  ridiculously  low,  and  the  private  day  schools 
have  been  forced  to  follow  suit.  I  dare  say  that  seven 
pounds  a  year  will  send  Corona,  say,  to  Miss  Dickin- 
son's genteel  seminary — nay,  I  '11  undertake  to  beat 
the  lady  down  to  that  sum — and  I  shall  still  be  left 
with  three  pounds  and  ten  shillings  to  squander  on 

shirts.     Now  if  you  start  thanking  me Ah,  there 

goes  the  dinner-bell!  Hurry,  man — you  're  first  on 
the  roster!" 


174 


CHAPTER  XV 

CANARIES   AND   GREYCOATS 

So  Corona  was  sent  to  school,  but  not,  as  it  befell, 
to  Miss  Dickinson's. 

Brother  Copas,  indeed,  paid  a  visit  to  Miss  Dick- 
inson, and,  warned  by  some  wise  instinct,  took  the 
child  with  him. 

Miss  Dickinson  herself  opened  the  front  door,  and 
explained  with  an  accent  of  high  refinement  that  her 
house-parlour  maid  was  indisposed  that  morning,  and 
her  cook  busy  for  the  moment. 

"You  have  some  message  for  me?"  she  asked 
graciously;  for  the  Brethren  of  St.  Hospital  pick  up 
a  little  business  as  letter-carriers  or  commissionaires. 

On  learning  her  visitor's  errand,  of  a  sudden  she 
stiffened  in  demeanour.  Corona,  watching  her  face 
intently,  noted  the  change. 

"Dear  me,  what  a  very  unusual  application!"  said 
Miss  Dickinson,  but  nevertheless  invited  them  to  step 
inside. 

"We  can  discuss  matters  more  freely  without  the 
child,"  she  suggested. 

175 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"As  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  Copas,  "provided 
you  don't  ask  her  to  wait  in  the  street." 

Corona  was  ushered  into  an  apartment  at  the  back 
— the  boudoir,  its  mistress  called  it — and  was  left 
there  amid  a  din  of  singing  canaries,  while  Miss  Dick- 
inson carried  off  Brother  Copas  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  boudoir  contained  some  scholastic  furniture  and 
a  vast  number  of  worthless  knick-knacks  in  poker- 
work,  fret-work,  leathern  applique-work,  gummed 
shell-work,  wool-work,  tambour- work,  with  crysto- 
leum  paintings  and  drawings  in  chalk  and  water- 
colour.  On  a  table  in  front  of  the  window  stood  a 
cage  with  five  canaries  singing  in  it.  Corona  herself 
felt  a  sense  of  imprisonment,  but  no  desire  to  sing. 
The  window  looked  upon  a  walled  yard,  in  which 
fifteen  girls  of  various  ages  were  walking  through 
some  kind  of  drill  under  an  instructress  whose  ap- 
pearance puzzled  her  until  she  remembered  that  Miss 
Dickinson's  cook  was  "  busy  for  the  moment." 

Corona  watched  their  movements  with  an  interest 
begotten  of  pity.  The  girls  whispered  and  prinked, 
and  exchanged  confidences  with  self-conscious  airs. 
They  paid  but  a  perfunctory  attention  to  the  drill. 
It  was  clear  they  despised  their  instructress.  Yet 
they  seemed  happy  enough,  in  a  way. 

" I  wonder  why ?"  thought  Corona.  "I  don't  like 
Miss  Dickinson;  first,  because  she  has  the  nose  of  a 
witch,  and  next  because  she  is  afraid  of  us.  I  think 
176 


CANARIES  AND   GREYCOATS 

she  is  afraid  of  us  because  we  're  poor.  Well,  I  'm 
not  afraid  of  her — not  really;  but  I  'd  feel  mighty 
uncomfortable  if  she  had  dear  old  daddy  in  there 
alone  instead  of  Uncle  Copas." 

Meanwhile  in  the  drawing-room — likewise  resonant 
with  canaries — Miss  Dickinson  was  carefully  help- 
ing Brother  Copas  to  understand  that  as  a  rule  she 
excluded  all  but  children  of  the  upper  classes. 

"  It  is  not — if  you  will  do  me  so  much  credit — that 
I  look  down  upon  the  others;  but  I  find  that  the 
children  themselves  are  not  so  happy  when  called 
upon  to  mix  with  those  of  a  different  station.  The 
world,  after  all,  is  the  world,  and  we  must  face  facts 
as  they  are." 

"You  mean,  ma'am,  that  your  young  ladies — or 
some  of  them — might  twit  Corona  for  having  a  father 
who  wears  the  Beauchamp  robe." 

"I  would  not  say  that.  ...  In  fact  I  have  some 
influence  over  them,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  and  should  im- 
press upon  them  beforehand  that  the — er — subject  is 
not  to  be  alluded  to." 

"That  would  be  extremely  tactful,"  said  Brother 
Copas. 

He  rose. 

"Pray  be  seated.  ...  As  I  dare  say  you  know, 
Mr. " 

"Copas." 

" — As  I  dare  say  you  know,  Mr.  Copas,  higher 
177 


BROTHER  COPAS 

education  in  England  just  now  is  passing  through  a — 
er — phase;  it  is  .(to  use  a  forcible,  if  possibly  vulgar, 
expression)  in  a  state  of  flux.  I  do  not  conceal  from 
myself  that  this  must  be  largely  attributed  to  the  Ed- 
ucation Act  of  1902." 

"Ah!" 

Brother  Copas  dived  finger  and  thumb  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket  in  search  of  his  snuff-box,  but, 
recollecting  himself,  withdrew  them  hastily. 

"Mr.  Balfour,  whether  he  meant  it  or  no,  hit  the 
private-venture  schools  beyond  a  doubt." 

"One  may  trust  that  it  is  but  a  temporary  blow. 
I  have,  let  me  say,  the  utmost  confidence  in  Mr. 
Balfour's  statesmanship.  I  believe — far-sighted  man 
that  he  is,  and  with  his  marvellous  apprehension  of 
the  English  character — 

"  'Tis  a  Scotchman's  first  aptitude,"  murmured 
Brother  Copas,  nodding  assent. 

" — I  believe  Mr.  Balfour  looked  beyond  the  im- 
mediate effect  of  the  Act  and  saw  that,  after  the 
municipalities'  and  county  councils'  first  success  in 
setting  up  secondary  schools  of  their  own,  each  with 
its  quota  of  poor,  non-paying  children,  our  sturdy 
British  independence  would  rise  against  the — er — 
contact.  The  self-respecting  parent  is  bound  to  say 
in  time,  'No,  I  will  not  have  my  son,  still  less  my 
daughter,  sitting  with  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry.'  In- 
deed, I  see  signs  of  this  already — most  encouraging 
178 


CANARIES  AND   GREYCOATS 

signs.  I  have  two  more  pupils  this  term  than  last, 
both  children  of  respectable  station." 

"I  congratulate  you,  ma'am,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
Mr.  Balfour  would  congratulate  himself,  could  he 
hear.  But  meantime  the  private-venture  schools 
have  been  hit,  especially  those  not  fortunate  enough 
to  be  'recognised'  by  the  Board  of  Education." 

"  I  seek  no  such  recognition,  sir,"  said  Miss  Dick- 
inson stiffly. 

Brother  Copas  bowed. 

"Forgive,  ma'am,  the  intrusive  ghost  of  a  profes- 
sional interest.  I  myself  once  kept  a  private  school 
for  boys.  A  precarious  venture  always,  and  it  re- 
quired no  Education  Act  to  wreck  mine." 

"  Indeed  ? "  Miss  Dickinson  raised  her  eyebrows 
in  faint  surprise,  and  anon  contracted  them.  "Had 
I  known  that  you  belonged  to  the  scholastic  profes- 
sion—  "  she  began,  but  leaving  the  sentence  un- 
finished, appeared  to  relapse  into  thought. 

"Believe  me,  ma'am,"  put  in  Brother  Copas,  "I 
mentioned  it  casually,  not  as  hinting  at  any  remission 
of  your  fees." 

"No,  no.  But  I  was  thinking  that  it  might  con- 
siderably soften  the — er — objection.  You  are  not  the 
child's  parent,  you  say?  Nor  grandparent?" 

"Her  godparent  only,  and  that  by  adoption.  In 
so  much  as  I  make  myself  responsible  for  her  school 
fees,  you  may  consider  me  her  guardian.  Her  father, 
179 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Brother  Bonaday,  is  a  decayed  gentleman,  sometime 
of  independent  means,  who  married  late  in  life,  and, 
on  top  of  this,  was  indiscreet  enough  to  confide  his 
affairs  to  a  trusted  family  solicitor." 

"Dear,  dear!  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  all  this 
to  begin  with?"  demanded  Miss  Dickinson,  rising. 
"Shall  we  consider  it  agreed,  then? — the  child  to 
come  to  me  as  soon  as  you  wish." 

"  I  think  we  must  first  discover  if  she  's  willing," 
answered  Brother  Copas,  rubbing  his  chin. 

"We  will  go  to  her." 

They  found  Corona  at  the  window  of  the  boudoir. 
As  the  door  opened  she  turned,  ran  to  Brother  Copas, 
and  clung  to  him. 

"Take  me  home!     Oh,  please  take  me  home!" 

"Hey?"  Brother  Copas  soothed  her,  patting  the 
back  of  her  head.  "WThy,  what  is  the  matter,  little 
maid?  Who  has  been  frightening  you?" 

"She  turns  them  all  into  canaries — I  know  she 
does!"  the  child  asserted,  still  shaking  pitiably,  but 
facing  Miss  Dickinson  with  accusation  in  her  eyes. 
"You  can  tell  it  by  her  nose  and  chin.  I — I  thought 
you  had  gone  away  and  left  me  with  her." 

"You  did  not  tell  me  she  was  hysterical,"  said 
Miss  Dickinson. 

"  It 's  news  to  me,  ma'am.  I  'd  best  get  her  out 
into  the  fresh  air  at  once." 

Without  waiting  for  permission,  he  swept  Corona 
180 


CANARIES  AND   GREYCOATS 

out  into  the  passage,  and  forth  into  the  street.  It  is 
a  question  which  felt  the  happier  when  they  gained 
it,  and  stood  drawing  long  breaths;  but,  of  course, 
Brother  Copas  had  to  put  on  a  severe  face. 

"All  very  well,  little  maid!" 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  're  disappointed  with  me,"  gasped 
Corona.  *'  I  'm  disappointed  with  myself.  But  it  was 
all  just  like  Jorinda  and  Jorindcl,  and  if  she  's  not 
a  witch,  and  doesn't  turn  them  into  canaries,  why 
does  she  keep  all  those  cages?"  She  halted  sud- 
denly. "  I  hate  to  be  a  coward,"  she  said.  "  If  you  '11 
come  with  me,  Uncle  Copas,  I  '11  start  back  right  here, 
and  we  '11  go  in  and  rescue  them.  It  was  the  waiting 
I  couldn't  stand." 

"Canaries?"  Brother  Copas  stood  and  looked 
down  on  her.  Some  apprehension  of  the  absurd 
fancy  broke  on  him,  and  he  chuckled.  "Now  you 
come  to  mention  it,  I  dare  say  she  does  turn  'em  into 
canaries." 

"Then  we  ought  to  go  straight  back  and  set  them 
free,"  insisted  Corona.  "If  only  we  had  the  magic 
flower!" 

"I  think  I  know  who  has  it.  ...  Yes,  you  may 
take  it  from  me,  little  one,  that  there 's  someone 
charged  to  put  an  end  to  Miss  Dickinson's  enchant- 
ments, and  we  may  safely  leave  it  to  him." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"The  deliverer's  name  is  County  Council.  .  .  . 
181 


BROTHER  COPAS 

But  look  here,  child — if  you  make  a  fuss  like  this 
whenever  I  try  to  find  a  school  for  you " 

"I  won't  make  a  fuss.  And  I  do  want  to  go  to 
school,"  interrupted  Corona.  "I  want  to  go  to  the 
Greycoats." 

"The  Greycoats?"  This  was  an  ancient  founda- 
tion in  the  city,  in  origin  a  charity-school,  but  now 
distinguished  from  the  ordinary  Elementary  Schools 
in  that  its  pupils  paid  twopence  a  week,  and  wore 
a  grey  uniform  provided  per  contra  from  the  funds 
of  the  charity.  "  The  Greycoats  ?  "  repeated  Brother 
Copas.  "But  I  had  a  mind  for  you  to  fly  higher, 
if  you  understand — 

Corona  nodded. 

"  And  so  I  shall ;  that  is,  Uncle,  if  you  '11  teach  me 
Latin,  as  you  promised." 

She  was  easy  in  mind,  since  Miss  Dickinson's  cana- 
ries would  be  delivered.  The  name  "  County  Coun- 
cil" meant  nothing  to  her,  but  it  had  affinity  with 
other  names  and  titles  of  romance — Captain  Judg- 
ment, for  instance,  in  The  Holy  War,  and  County 
Guy  in  the  poetry  book 

"Ah:    County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh" — 

Since  Uncle  Copas  had  said  it,  Miss  Dickinson's 
hour  was  assuredly  nigh. 

"This  is  not  the  way,  though,"  Corona  protested. 
"We  are  walking  right  away  from  the  Greycoats!" 
182 


CANARIES  AND   GREYCOATS 

Brother  Copas  halted. 

"I  supposed  that  I  was  taking  you  back  to  St. 
Hospital." 

"  But  you  came  out  to  put  me  to  school,  and  I  want 
to  go  to  the  Greycoats." 

He  pondered  a  moment. 

"Ah,  well,  have  it  your  own  way!" 

They  turned  back  toward  the  city.  The  Greycoats 
inhabited  a  long,  single-storied  building  on  the  eastern 
boundary  of  the  Cathedral  Close,  the  boys  and  girls 
in  separate  schools  under  the  same  high-pitched  roof. 
As  our  two  friends  came  in  sight  of  it,  Corona — who 
had  been  running  ahead  in  her  impatience — hesitated 
of  a  sudden  and  turned  about. 

"Uncle  Copas,  before  we  go  in  I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  ...  I  was  really  frightened — yes,  really 
— in  that  wicked  house.  But  I  wanted  to  be  a  Grey- 
coat all  the  time.  I  want  to  wear  a  cloak  that  means 
I  belong  to  Merchester,  same  as  you  and  Daddy." 

"Lord  forgive  me,  she's  proud  of  us!"  murmured 
Brother  Copas.  "And  I  set  out  this  morning  to  get 
her  taught  to  despise  us!" 


183 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   SECOND   LETTER 

MEANWHILE  certain  small  events  not  unconnected 
with  this  history  were  happening  at  St.  Hospital. 

At  ten  o'clock  punctually  Mr.  Colt  waited  on  the 
Master.  This  was  a  part  of  the  daily  routine,  but 
ninety-nine  times  in  a  hundred  the  Chaplain's  report 
resolved  itself  into  a  chat  on  the  weather,  the  Master's 
roses,  some  recent  article  in  the  Church  Times  or  the 
Guardian.  The  talk  was  never  very  strenuous,  for 
whereas  Mr.  Colt  could  never  learn  to  distinguish  one 
rose  from  another,  on  Church  affairs  or  on  politics 
the  Master  was  hopelessly  tolerant,  antiquated,  in- 
curious even.  What  could  one  do  with  a  dear  old 
gentleman  who,  when  informed  of  the  latest,  most 
dangerous  promotion  to  a  bishopric,  but  responded 
with  "  Eh  ?  '  So-and-so,'  did  you  say  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  yes. 
I  knew  his  father  ...  an  excellent  fellow!" 

This  morning,  however,  the  Chaplain  wore  a  grave 
face.  After  a  few  words  he  came  to  business. 

"  It  concerns  a  letter  I  received  this  morning.  The 
writer,  who  signs  himself  '  Well  Wisher/  makes  a  dis- 
184 


THE  SECOND  LETTER 

gusting  allegation  against  old  Bonaday — an  incredi- 
bly disgusting  allegation.  You  will  prefer  to  read  it 
for  yourself." 

Mr.  Colt  produced  the  letter  from  his  pocket-book, 
and  held  it  out. 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  Master  Blanchminster,  receding. 
"Another?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ?  " 

The  Master  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  bent  forward, 
still  without  offering  to  touch  the  thing  or  receive  it 
from  Mr.  Colt's  hand. 

"Yes,  yes.  I  recognize  the  handwriting.  ...  To 
tell  the  truth,  my  dear  Colt,  I  received  just  such  a 
letter  one  day  last  week.  For  the  moment  it  caused 
me  great  distress  of  mind." 

Mr.  Colt  was  vexed,  a  little  hurt,  that  the  Master 
had  not  consulted  him  about  it. 

"You  mean  to  say  it  contained " 

" — the  same  sort  of  thing,  no  doubt:  charges 
against  Brother  Bonaday  and  against  one  of  the 
nurses:  incredibly  disgusting,  as  you  say." 

"May  I  be  allowed  to  compare  the  two  letters? 
...  I  do  not,"  said  Mr.  Colt  stiffly,  "seek  more  of 
your  confidence  than  you  care  to  bestow." 

"My  dear  fellow —     "  protested  the  Master. 

"I  merely  suggest  that,  since  it  concerns  the  disci- 
pline of  St.  Hospital — for  which  in  the  past  you  have 

honoured  me  with  some  responsibility : 

185 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  should  see  it  and  welcome; 

but  the  fact  is "  Here  the  Master  broke  off. 

"I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have  put  it  straight  into  the 
fire." 

"Why?"  asked  Mr.  Colt. 

"But  the  fact  is,  I  gave  it  away." 

"Gave  it  away!  .  .  .  To  whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"To  Brother  Copas,  of  all  people,"  confessed  the 
Master  with  a  rueful  little  chuckle.  "Yes,  I  don't 
wonder  that  you  stare:  yet  it  happened  very  simply. 
You  remember  the  day  I  asked  you  to  send  him  to  me 
for  a  talk  about  the  Petition?  Well,  he  found  me  in 
distress  over  this  letter,  which  I  had  just  received, 
and  on  an  impulse  I  showed  it  to  him.  I  really 
wanted  his  assurance  that  the  charge  was  as  baseless 
as  it  was  foul,  and  that  assurance  he  gave  me.  So 
you  may  with  an  easy  mind  put  your  letter  in  the 
fire." 

"It  would  at  any  rate  be  a  safer  course  than  to 
give  it  away,"  said  the  Chaplain,  frowning. 

"A  hit — a  palpable  hit!  .  .  .  I  ought  to  have  added 
that  Brother  Copas  has  a  notion  he  can  discover  the 
writer,  whom  he  positively  asserts  to  be  a  woman. 
So  I  allowed  him  to  take  the  thing  away  with  him.  I 
may  as  well  confess,"  the  old  man  added,  "  that  I 
live  in  some  dread  of  his  making  the  discovery.  Of 
course  it  is  horrible  to  think  that  St.  Hospital  harbours 
anyone  capable  of  such  a  letter;  but  to  deal  ade- 
186 


THE  SECOND  LETTER 

quately  with  the  culprit — especially  if  she  be  a  woman 
— will  be  for  the  moment  yet  more  horrible." 

"Excuse  me,  Master,  if  I  don't  quite  follow  you," 
said  the  Chaplain  unsympathetically.  "You  appear 
to  be  exercised  rather  over  the  writer  than  over 
Brother  Bonaday,  against  whom  the  charge  lies." 

"You  have  hit  on  the  precise  word,"  answered 
Master  Blanchminster,  smiling.  "  Brother  Copas  as- 
sures me ' 

"  But  is  Brother  Copas  an  entirely  credible  witness  ?  " 

The  master  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  who  should  know  better?  He  is  Brother 
Bonaday's  closest  friend.  Surely,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
had  thought  you  were  aware  of  that!" 

In  the  face  of  this  simplicity  the  Chaplain  could 
only  grind  his  teeth  upon  a  helpless  inward  wrath. 
It  took  him  some  seconds  to  recover  speech. 

"On  my  way  here,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  made 
some  small  inquiries,  and  find  that  some  days  ago 
Nurse  Branscome  ceased  her  attendance  on  Bonaday, 
handing  over  the  case  to  our  excellent  Nurse  Turner. 
This,  of  course,  may  mean  little." 

"It  may  mean  that  Brother  Copas  has  taken  occa- 
sion to  warn  her." 

"It  means,  anyhow,  that — whether  prudently  or 
by  accident — she  has  given  pause  to   the  scandal. 
In  this  pause  I  can,  perhaps,  make  occasion  to  get  at 
the  truth;  always  with  your  leave,  of  course." 
187 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  my  giving  leave  or 
withholding  it.  You  have  received  a  private  letter, 
which  you  perceive  I  have  no  desire  to  read.  You 
must  act  upon  it  as  directed  by  your  own — er — taste. 
And  now  shall  we  talk  of  something  else?" 

He  said  it  with  a  mild  dignity  which  effectively 
closed  the  discussion  and  left  Mr.  Colt  raging.  In 
and  about  St.  Hospital  nine  observers  out  of  ten 
would  have  told  you  that  the  Chaplain  held  this  dear, 
do-nothing  old  Master  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and 
on  nine  occasions  out  of  ten  the  Chaplain  felt  sure 
of  it.  On  the  tenth  he  found  himself  mocked,  as  a 
schoolboy  believes  he  has  grasped  a  butterfly  and 
opens  his  fingers  cautiously,  to  find  no  prisoner  within 
them.  He  could  never  precisely  understand  how  it 
happened,  and  it  never  failed  to  annoy  him  heavily. 

After  bidding  the  Master  good-morning  he  went 
straight  to  Brother  Bonaday's  lodging.  Brother  Bon- 
aday,  now  fairly  convalescent,  was  up  and  dressed 
and  seated  in  his  arm-chair,  whiling  away  the  morn- 
ing with  a  newspaper.  In  days  of  health  he  had  been 
a  diligent  reader  of  dull  books;  had  indeed  (according 
to  his  friend  Copas — but  the  story  may  be  apocryphal) 
been  known  to  sit  up  past  midnight  with  an  antiquated 
Annual  Report  of  the  Registrar-General,  borrowed 
from  the  shelf  of  Brother  Inchbald,  whose  past  avo- 
cations had  included  the  registering  of  Births,  Deaths 
and  Marriages  somewhere  in  Wiltshire.  But  of  late, 
188 


THE  SECOND   LETTER 

as  sometimes  happens  in  old  age,  books  had  lost  their 
savour  for  him,  and  he  preferred  to  let  his  eyes  rest 
idly  on  life's  passing  show  as  reflected  in  the  camera 
obscura  of  a  halfpenny  paper. 

He  rose  respectfully  as  the  Chaplain  entered. 

"Be  seated,  please,"  said  Mr.  Colt.  Declining  a 
chair  for  himself,  he  planted  his  feet  astraddle  on  the 
worn  hearthrug. 

Standing  so,  with  his  back  to  the  grate,  his  broad 
shoulders  blocking  out  the  lower  half  of  a  picture  of 
the  Infant  Samuel  above  the  mantelshelf,  he  towered 
over  the  frail  invalid,  concerning  whose  health  he 
asked  a  few  perfunctory  questions  before  plunging 
into  business. 

"  You  're  wondering  what  brings  me  here.  Fact 
is,"  he  announced,  "  I  've  come  to  ask  you  a  plain 
question — a  question  it 's  my  duty  to  ask;  and  I 
think  you  're  strong  enough  to  answer  it  without 
any  beating  about  the  bush  on  either  side.  For  six 
months  now  I  haven't  seen  you  at  Holy  Communion. 
Why?" 

Brother  Bonaday's  face  twitched  sharply.  For  a 
moment  or  two  he  seemed  to  be  searching  for  an 
answer.  His  lips  parted,  but  still  no  answer  came. 

"  I  know,  you  know,"  said  the  Chaplain,  nodding 
down  at  him.  "  I  keep  a  record  of  these  things — 
names  and  dates." 

Brother  Bonaday  might  have  answered 

189 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Quite  so — and  that  is  why." 

Some  churchmen — of  the  type  for  which  Mr.  Colt 
adequately  catered — revel  in  professing  their  faith, 
and  will  parade  for  its  holiest  sacrament  with  an 
unabashed  and  hail-fellow  sociability;  and  doubtless 
for  these  "brass-band  communicants"  (as  Brother 
Copas  called  them)  a  great  deal  may  be  said.  But 
Brother  Bonaday  was  one  of  those  others  who,  walk- 
ing among  mysteries,  must  hush  the  voice  and  bow 
the  head;  to  whom  the  Elements  are  awful,  and  in 
whom  awe  begets  a  sweet  and  tender  shame.  To  be 
docketed  as  having,  on  such  and  such  a  day,  at  such 
and  such  an  hour,  partaken  of  them  was  to  him  an 
intolerable  thought.  To  quote  Brother  Copas  again, 
"These  Neo-Catholics  may  well  omit  to  fence  the 
tables,  confident  in  the  protection  of  their  own  vul- 
garity." 

Yet  Brother  Bonaday  had  another  reason,  on  which 
the  Chaplain  hit — though  brutally  and  by  accident — 
in  his  next  question. 

"Haven't  anything  on  your  conscience,  hey?" 

Brother  Bonaday  had  something  on  his  conscience. 
His  face  twitched  with  the  pain  of  it;  but  still  he 
made  no  answer. 

"If  so,"  Mr.  Colt  pursued,  "take  my  advice  and 

have  it  out."     He  spoke  as  one  recommending  the 

extraction    of    a    tooth.     "  You  're    a    Protestant,    I 

know,  though  you  didn't  sign  that  Petition;  and  I  'm 

190 


THE  SECOND   LETTER 

not  here  to  argue  about  first  principles.  I  'm  come 
as  a  friend.  All  I  suggest  is,  as  between  practical 
men,  that  you  just  give  the  thing  a  trial.  It  may  be 
pretty  bad,"  suggested  Mr.  Colt,  dropping  his  air  of 
authority  and  picking  up  his  most  insinuating  voice. 
"I  hear  some  pretty  bad  things;  but  I'll  guarantee 
your  feeling  all  the  better  for  a  clean  breast.  Come, 
let  me  make  a  guess.  ...  It  has  something  to  do 
with  this  child  of  yours!" 

Mr.  Colt,  looking  down  from  his  great  height,  saw 
the  invalid's  face  contracted  by  a  sharp  spasm,  noted 
that  his  thin  hands  gripped  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair 
so  tightly  that  the  finger-nails  whitened,  and  smiled 
to  himself.  Here  was  plain  sailing. 

"I  know  more  than  you  guessed,  eh?  Well,  now, 
why  not  tell  me  the  whole  truth?" 

Brother  Bonaday  gazed  up  as  if  appealing  for 
mercy,  but  shook  his  head. 

"I  cannot,  sir." 

"Come,  come — as  to  a  friend,  if  you  won't  as  to  a 
priest?  .  .  .  Hang  it  all,  my  good  man,  you  might 
give  me  credit  for  that,  considering  the  chance  I  'm 
holding  out.  You  don't  surely  suppose  that  St. 
Hospital  will  continue  to  suffer  this  scandal  in  its 
midst?"  Still  as  Brother  Bonaday  shook  his  head, 
the  Chaplain  with  a  sigh  of  impatience  enlarged  his 
hint.  "  Copas  knows:  I  have  it  on  the  best  authority. 
Was  it  he  that  dropped  the  hint  to  Nurse  Branscome  ? 
191 


BROTHER  COPAS 

or  did  she  herself  scent  the  discovery  and  give  over 
attending  on  you?" 

"You  won't — send  her — away!"  pleaded  Brother 
Bonaday,  thinking  only  of  Corona. 

His  voice  came  in  a  whisper,  between  gasps  for 
breath. 

Mr.  Colt  stared. 

"Well,  of  all  the  calm  requests !"  he  began. 

But  here  the  sound  of  a  light  running  footstep  cut 
him  short.  The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  on  the 
threshold  stood  Corona,  flushed,  excited. 

"Daddy,  guess!  Oh,  but  you'll  never!  I 'm  a 
real  live  Greycoat,  and  if  I  don't  tell  Timmy  before 
you  ask  a  single  question  I  shall  burst!" 

She  came  to  a  halt,  her  eyes  on  Mr.  Colt. 
'  'Tis  the  truth,"  announced  Brother  Copas,  over- 
taking her  as  she  paused  in  the  doorway.  "  We  shot 
at  a  canary,  and —  Good  God!"  he  exclaimed, 
catching  sight  of  Brother  Bonaday's  face.  "Slip 
away  and  fetch  the  nurse,  child!" 

Corona  ran.  While  she  ran  Brother  Copas  stepped 
past  Mr.  Colt,  and  slid  an  arm  under  his  friend's 
head  as  it  dropped  sideways,  blue  with  anguish.  He 
turned  on  the  tall  Chaplain  fiercely. 

"What  devil's  game  have  you  been  playing  here?" 


192 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PUPPETS 

THROUGHOUT  the  night  Brother  Bonaday  hovered 
between  life  and  death,  nor  until  four  days  later  did 
the  doctor  pronounce  him  out  of  danger — that  is  to 
say,  for  the  time,  since  the  trouble  in  his  heart  was 
really  incurable,  and  at  best  the  frail  little  man's  re- 
maining days  could  not  be  many.  Nurse  Turner 
waited  on  him  assiduously,  always  with  her  com- 
fortable smile.  No  trouble  came  amiss  to  her,  and 
certainly  Nurse  Branscome  herself  could  not  have 
done  better. 

In  a  sense,  too,  Corona's  first  experiences  of  school- 
going  befell  her  most  opportunely.  They  would  dis- 
tract her  mind,  Brother  Copas  reflected,  and  tore  up 
the  letter  he  had  written  delaying  her  noviciate  on 
the  ground  of  her  father's  illness.  They  did;  and, 
moreover,  the  head  mistress  of  the  Greycoats,  old 
Miss  Champernowne,  aware  that  the  child's  father 
was  ill,  possibly  dying,  took  especial  pains  to  be  kind 
to  her. 

Corona  was  dreadfully  afraid  her  father  would  die. 
But,  in  the  main  most  mercifully,  youth  lives  for  it- 
193 


BROTHER  COPAS 

self,  not  for  the  old.  At  home  she  could  have  given 
little  help  or  none.  The  Brethren's  quarters  were 
narrow — even  Brother  Bonaday's  with  its  spare 
chamber — and  until  the  crisis  was  over  she  could 
only  be  in  the  way.  She  gave  up  her  room,  therefore, 
to  Nurse  Turner  for  the  night  watching,  and  went 
across  to  the  Nunnery  to  lodge  with  Nurse  Branscome. 
This  again  was  no  hardship,  but  rather,  under  all  her 
cloud  of  anxiety,  a  delightful  adventure;  for  Branny 
had  at  once  engaged  with  her  in  a  conspiracy. 

The  subject — for  a  while  the  victim — of  this  con- 
spiracy was  her  black  doll  Timothy.  As  yet  Timo- 
thy knew  nothing,  and  was  supposed  to  suspect  noth- 
ing, of  her  goings  to  school.  She  had  carefully  kept 
the  secret  from  him,  intending  to  take  him  aback 
with  it  when  she  brought  home  the  Greycoat  uniform 
— frock  and  cloak  and  hood  of  duffle  grey — for  which 
Miss  Champernowne  had  measured  her.  Mean- 
while it  was  undoubtedly  hard  on  him  to  lie  neglected 
in  a  drawer,  and  be  visited  but  twice  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours,  to  have  his  garments  changed.  Corona, 
putting  him  into  pyjamas,  would  (with  an  aching 
heart)  whisper  to  him  to  be  patient  for  a  little  while 
yet,  and  all  would  come  right. 

"  It  is  hard,  Branny,"  she  sighed,  "  that  I  can't  even 
take  him  to  bed  with  me.  .  .  .  But  it 's  not  to  be 
thought  of.  I  'd  be  sure  to  talk  in  my  sleep." 

"  He  seems  to  be  a  very  unselfish  person,"  observed 
194 


PUPPETS 

Branny.  "At  any  rate,  you  treat  him  as  such,  mak- 
ing him  wait  all  this  while  for  the  delight  of  seeing 
you  happy." 

Corona  knit  her  brow. 

"  Now  you  're  talking  upsi-downly,  like  Uncle 
Copas,"  she  said.  "You  don't  mean  that  Timmy's 
unselfish,  but  that  I  'm  selfish.  Of  course,  you  don't 
realize  how  good  he  is;  nobody  does  but  me,  and  it 's 
not  to  be  es-pected.  But  all  the  same,  I  s'pose  I  've 
been  thinking  too  much  about  myself." 

Corona's  was  a  curiously  just  mind,  as  has  already 
been  said. 

Nurse  Branscome  had  a  happy  inspiration. 

"Couldn't  we  make  new  clothes  for  Timmy,  and 
surprise  him  with  them  at  the  same  time?" 

Corona  clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Branny,  how  beautiful!  Yes — a  Beauchamp 
gown,  just  like  Daddy's!  Why-ever  didn't  we  think 
of  it  before?" 

"A  what?" 

"A  Beauchamp  gown.  ...  Do  you  know,"  said 
Corona  gravely,  "  it 's  a  most  'stonishing  thing  I 
never  thought  of  it,  because — I  '11  tell  you  why. 
When  I  first  came  to  St.  Hospital  often  and  often  I 
couldn't  get  to  sleep  for  thinking  how  happy  I  was. 
Daddy  got  worried  about  it,  and  told  me  it  was  a 
good  cure  to  lie  still  and  fancy  I  saw  a  flock  of  sheep 
jumping  one  after  another  through  a  hedge.  .  .  . 
195 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Well,  that  didn't  answer — at  least,  not  ezactly;  for 
you  see  I  wanted  to  be  coaxed  off,  and  I  never  took 
any  particular  truck  in  sheep.  But  one  night — you 
know  that  big  stone  by  the  gate  of  the  home-park? 
the  one  Uncle  Copas  calls  the  Hepping-stone,  and 
says  the  great  Cardinal  used  to  climb  on  to  his  horse 
from  it  when  he  went  hunting?"  (Nurse  Branscome 
nodded.)  "Well,  one  night  I  closed  my  eyes,  and 
there  I  saw  all  the  old  folks  here  turned  into  children, 
and  all  out  and  around  the  Hepping-stone,  playing 
leap-frog.  .  .  .  The  way  they  went  over  each  other's 
backs!  It  beat  the  band.  .  .  .  Some  were  in  Beau- 
champ  gowns  and  others  in  Blanchminster — but  all 
children,  you  understand?  Each  child  finished  up 
by  leap-frogging  over  the  stone;  and  when  he  'd  done 
that  he  'd  run  away  and  be  lost  among  the  trees.  I 
wanted  to  follow,  but  somehow  I  had  to  stand  there 
counting.  .  .  .  And  that 's  all  there  is  to  it,"  con- 
cluded Corona,  "  'cept  that  I  'd  found  the  way  to 
go  to  sleep." 

Nurse  Branscome  laughed,  and  suggested  that  no 
time  should  be  lost  in  going  off  to  call  on  Mr.  Colling, 
the  tailor,  and  begging  or  borrowing  a  scrap  of  the 
claret-coloured  Beauchamp  cloth.  Within  ten  min- 
utes— for  she  understood  the  impatience  of  children — 
they  had  started  on  this  small  expedition.  They 
found  in  Mr.  Colling  a  most  human  tailor.  He  not 
only  gave  them  a  square  yard  of  cloth,  unsoiled  and 
196 


PUPPETS 

indeed  brand-new,  but  advised  Nurse  Branscome 
learnedly  on  the  cutting-out.  There  were  certain 
peculiarities  of  cut  in  a  Beauchamp  gown:  it  was  (he 
could  tell  them)  a  unique  garment  in  its  way,  and  he 
the  sole  repository  of  its  technical  secret.  On  their 
way  back  Corona  summarised  him  as  "  a  truly  Chris- 
tian tradesman." 

So  the  miniature  gown  was  cut  out,  shaped,  and 
sewn,  after  the  unsuspecting  Timothy  had,  been 
measured  for  it  on  a  pretence  of  Corona's  that  she 
wanted  to  discover  how  much  he  had  grown  during 
his  rest-cure.  (For  I  regret  to  say  that,  as  one  sub- 
terfuge leads  to  another,  she  had  by  this  time  de- 
scended to  feigning  a  nervous  breakdown  for  him, 
due  to  his  outgrowing  his  strength.)  Best  of  all,  and 
when  the  gown  was  finished,  Nurse  Branscome  pro- 
duced from  her  workbox  a  lucky  threepenny-bit,  and 
sewed  it  upon  the  breast  to  simulate  a  Beauchamp 


When  Corona's  own  garments  arrived — when  they 
were  indued  and  she  stood  up  in  them,  a  Greycoat  at 
length  from  head  to  heel — to  hide  her  own  feelings 
she  had  to  invent  another  breakdown  (emotional 
this  time)  for  Timothy  as  she  dangled  the  gown  in 
front  of  him. 

"Be  a  man,  Timmy!"  she  exhorted  him. 

Having  clothed  him  and  clasped  him  to  her  breast, 
she  turned  to  Nurse  Branscome,  who  had  been  per- 
197 


BROTHER  COPAS 

mitted,  as  indeed  she  deserved,  to  witness  the  coup 
de  thedtre. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Branny,  I  think  we  '11  go  off 
somewhere — by  ourselves." 

She  carried  the  doll  off  to  the  one  unkempt  corner 
of  Mr.  Battershall's  garden,  where  in  the  shadow  of 
a  stone  dovecot,  ruinated  and  long  disused,  a  rustic 
bench  stood  deep  in  nettles.  On  this  she  perched 
herself,  and  sat  with  legs  dangling  while  she  dis- 
coursed with  Timothy  of  their  new  promotion. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  have  the  best  of  it. 
Men  always  have."  Nevertheless,  she  would  have 
him  know  that  to  be  a  Greycoat  was  good  enough 
for  most  people.  She  described  the  schoolroom. 
"It 's  something  like  a  chapel,"  she  said,  "and  some- 
thing like  a  long  whitewashed  bird-cage,  with  great 
beams  for  perches.  You  could  eat  your  dinner  off 
the  floor  most  days;  and  Miss  Champernowne  has 
the  dearest  little  mole  on  the  left  side  of  her  upper 
lip,  with  three  white  hairs  in  it.  When  she  looks  at 
you  over  her  glasses  it 's  like  a  bird  getting  ready 
to  drink;  and  when  she  plays  'Another  day  is  done' 
on  the  harmonium  and  pitches  the  note,  it 's  just  the 
way  a  bird  lifts  his  throat  to  let  the  water  trickle  down 
inside.  She  has  the  loveliest  way  of  putting  things, 
too.  Only  yesterday,  speaking  of  China,  she  told  us 
that  words  would  fail  her  to  describe  one-half  the 
wonders  of  that  enchanted  land.  .  .  .  After  that 
198 


PUPPETS 

there  's  going  to  be  no  rest  for  me  until  I  've  seen 
China  for  myself.  Such  a  nice  lot  of  children  as  they 
are,  if  it  weren't  for  Marty  Jewell.  She  sits  next  to 
me  and  copies  my  sums,  and  when  I  remind  her  of 
it  she  puts  out  her  tongue;  but  she  has  a  sister  in 
the  infant  class  at  the  end  of  the  room  with  the  same 
trick,  so  I  s'pose  it  runs  in  the  family.  ...  I  'm 
forgetting,  though,"  she  ran  on.  "  You  're  Brother 
Timothy  now,  a  Beauchamp  Brother,  and  the  Lord 
knows  how  I  'm  to  make  you  sensible  of  it!  I  heard 
Brother  Clerihew  taking  a  party  around  yesterday, 
and  played  around  close  to  hear  what  he  had  to  tell 
about  the  place.  All  he  said  was  that  if  these  old 
walls  could  speak  what  a  tale  might  they  not  unfold  ? 
And  then  a  lady  turned  round  and  supposed  that 
the  child  (meaning  me)  was  following  them  on  the 
chance  of  a  copper.  So  I  came  away.  ...  I  've  my 
belief,"  announced  Corona,  "Brother  Clerihew  was 
speaking  through  his  hat.  There  's  nobody  but  Uncle 
Copas  knows  anything  about  this  place — him  and 
the  Lord  Almighty;  and  as  the  chief  engineer  told  me 
aboard  the  Carnatic,  when  I  kept  asking  him  how 
soon  we  should  get  to  England,  He  won't  split  under 
a  quart.  The  trouble  is,  Uncle  Copas  won't  lay  up 
for  visitors.  Manby,  at  the  lodge,  says  he  's  too 
proud.  .  .  .  But  maybe  he  '11  take  me  round  some 
day  if  I  ask  him  nicely,  and  then  you  can  come  on 
my  arm  and  pretend  you  're  not  listening.  .  .  .  No," 
199 


BROTHER  COPAS 

announced  Corona,  after  musing  awhile,  "  that  would 
be  deception.  I  '11  have  to  go  to  him  and  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it." 

It  occurred  to  her  that  Brother  Manby  was  a  friend 
of  hers.  He  didn't  know  much,  to  be  sure;  but  he 
was  capable  of  entering  into  a  joke  and  introducing 
Timothy  to  the  Wayfarers'  Dole.  She  tucked  the 
doll  under  her  arm  and  wended  towards  the  porter's 
lodge,  where,  as  it  happened,  she  met  Brother  Copas 
coming  through  the  gateway  in  talk  with  the  Chap- 
lain. 

The  Chaplain  in  fact  had  sought  out  Brother  Copas, 
had  found  him  in  his  customary  haunt,  fishing  gloom- 
ily and  alone  beside  the  Mere,  and  had  opened  his 
purpose  for  once  pretty  straightly,  yet  keeping  an- 
other in  reserve. 

"The  Master  has  told  me  he  gave  you  an  anony- 
mous letter  that  reached  him  concerning  Brother 
Bonaday.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  ask  you  a 
question  or  two  quite  frankly  about  it." 

"Now  what  in  the  world  can  he  want?"  thought 
Copas,  continuing  to  whip  the  stream.  Aloud  he 
said:  "You  '11  excuse  me,  but  I  see  no  frankness  in 
your  asking  questions  before  telling  me  how  much 
you  know." 

"  I  intended  that.     I  have  received  a  similar  letter." 

"I  guessed  as  much.  ...  So  you  called  on  him 
200 


PUPPETS 

with  it  and  bullied  him  into  another  attack  of  angina 
pectorisf     That  too  I  guessed.     Well?" 

The  Chaplain  made  no  answer  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  with  some  dignity — 

"I  might  point  out  to  you — might  I  not? — that 
both  your  speech  and  the  manner  of  it  are  grossly 
insubordinate." 

"  I  know  it.  ...  I  am  sorry,  sir;  but  in  some  way 
or  another — by  showing  him  your  letter,  I  suppose 
— you  have  come  near  to  killing  my  only  friend." 

"  I  did  not  show  him  the  letter." 

"  Then  I  beg  your  pardon."  Brother  Copas  turned 
and  began  to  wind  in  his  line.  "If  you  wish  to  talk 
about  it,  I  recognise  that  you  have  the  right,  sir;  but 
let  me  beg  you  to  be  brief." 

"  The  more  willingly  because  I  wish  to  consult  you 
afterwards  on  a  pleasanter  subject.  .  .  .  Now  in  this 
matter,  I  put  it  to  you  that — the  Master  choosing  to 
stand  aside — you  and  I  have  some  responsibility. 
Try,  first,  to  understand  mine.  So  long  as  I  have 
to  account  for  the  discipline  of  St.  Hospital  I  can 
scarcely  ignore  such  a  scandal,  hey?" 

"No,"  agreed  Brother  Copas,  after  a  long  look  at 
him.  "I  admit  that  you  would  find  it  difficult." 
He  mused  a  while.  "No,"  he  repeated;  "to  be  quite 
fair,  there  's  no  reason  why  you — who  don't  know 
Bonaday — should  assume  him  to  be  any  better  than 
the  rest  of  us." 

201 


BROTHER  COPAS 

-  While  you,  on  your  part,  will  naturally  be 
eager  to  clear  your  friend." 

"If  I  thought  the  accusation  serious." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  simply  ignored 
it?" 

Now  this  happened  to  be  an  awkward  question; 
and  Brother  Copas,  seeking  to  evade  it,  jumped  (as 
they  say)  from  the  frying  pan  into  the  fire. 

"Tut,  sir!  The  invention  of  some  poisonous 
woman!" 

"You  are  sure  the  letter  was  written  by  a  woman?" 

Brother  Copas  was  sure,  but  had  to  admit  that  he 
lacked  evidence.  He  did  not  confess  to  having  laid 
a  small  plot  which  had  failed  him.  He  had  received 
no  less  than  eleven  tenders  for  his  weekly  laundry, 
but  not  one  of  the  applicants  had  written  the  "W" 
in  "Washing  List"  with  that  characteristic  initial 
curl  of  which  he  was  in  search. 

"Then  you  have  made  some  investigations?  .  .  . 
Nay,  I  don't  wish  more  of  your  confidence  than  you 
choose  to  give  me.  So  long  as  I  know  that  you  are 
not  treating  the  business  as  negligible — 

"I  don't  promise  to  inquire  one  inch  farther." 

"But  you  will,  nevertheless,"  concluded  Mr.  Colt 
with  the  patronising  laugh  of  one  who  knows  his  man. 

"Damn  the  fellow!"  thought  Copas.  "Why  can- 
not he  be  always  the  fool  he  looks?" 


202 


PUPPETS 

"  And  now,"  pursued  Mr.  Colt  blithely,  "  I  want  to 
engage  your  interest  in  another  matter — I  mean  the 
Pageant." 

"Oh!"  said  Brother  Copas.  "Is  that  still  going 
forward  ?  " 

"Settled,  my  dear  sir!  When  Mr.  Bamberger 
once  puts  his  hand  to  the  plough.  ...  A  General 
Committee  has  been  formed,  with  the  Lord-Lieuten- 
ant himself  for  President.  The  guarantee  fund  al- 
ready runs  to  £1,500,  and  we  shall  get  twice  that 
amount  promised  before  we  've  done.  In  short,  the 
thing  's  to  come  off  some  time  next  June,  and  I  am 
Chairman  of  the  Performance  Committee,  which 
(under  Mr.  Isidore  Bamberger)  arranges  the  actual 
Pageant,  plans  out  the  'book/  recruits  authors,  per- 
formers, ei  cetera.  There  are  other  committees,  of 
course:  Finance  Committee,  Ground  and  Grand 
Stand  Committee,  Costume  Committee,  and  so  on; 
but  ours  is  the  really  interesting  part  of  the  work,  and, 
sir,  I  want  you  to  join  us." 

"You  flatter  me,  sir;  or  you  fish  with  a  narrow 
mesh  indeed." 

"  Why,  I  dare  swear  you  would  know  more  of  the 
past  history  of  Merchester  than  any  man  you  met 
at  the  committee-table." 

Brother  Copas  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"H'm!  .  .  .  To  be  sure,  I  have  been  specialising 
of  late  on  the  Reformation  period." 
203 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"I — er — don't  think  we  shall  include  any  episode 
dealing  specially  with  that  period." 

"Too  serious,  perhaps?" 

"Our — er — object  is  to  sweep  broadly  down  the 
stream  of  time,  embodying  the  great  part  our  city 
played  for  hundreds  of  years  in  the  history  of  our 
nation — I  may  say  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race." 

"I  shouldn't,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Brother  Copas, 
"not  even  to  please  Mr.  Bamberger.  ...  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  I  had  guessed  your  object  to  be  something 
of  the  sort,"  he  added  dryly. 

"As  you  may  suppose — and  as,  indeed,  is  but 
proper  in  Merchester — special  stress  will  be  laid 
throughout  on  the  ecclesiastical  side  of  the  story: 
the  influence  of  Mother  Church,  permeating  and  at 
every  turn  informing  our  national  life." 

"  But  you  said  a  moment  ago  that  you  were  leaving 
out  the  Reformation." 

"We  seek  rather  to  illustrate  the  continuity  of  her 
influence." 

Brother  Copas  took  snuff. 

"You  must  not  think,  however,"  pursued  the 
Chaplain,  "  that  we  are  giving  the  thing  a  sectarian 
trend.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  taking  great  care  to 
avoid  it.  Our  appeal  is  to  one  and  all:  to  the  unify- 
ing civic  sense  and,  through  that,  to  the  patriotic. 
Several  prominent  Nonconformists  have  already 
joined  the  Committee;  indeed,  Alderman  Chope — 
204 


PUPPETS 

who,  as  you  know,  is  a  Baptist,  but  has  a  remarkably 
fine  presence — has  more  than  half  consented  to  im- 
personate Alfred  the  Great.  If  further  proof  be 
needed,  I  may  tell  you  that,  in  view  of  the  coming 
Pan-Anglican  Conference,  the  Committee  has  pro- 
visionally resolved  to  divide  the  proceeds  (if  any)  be- 
tween the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society  and  the 
Society  for  the  Propagation  of  the  Gospel." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Brother  Copas,  maliciously  quot- 
ing Falstaff .  "  '  It  was  alway  yet  the  trick  of  our 
English  nation,  if  they  have  a  good  thing,  to  make  it 
too  common.'  " 

The  Chaplain  did  not  hear. 

"I  earnestly  hope,"  said  he,  "you  will  let  me  pro- 
pose you  for  my  Committee." 

"I  would  not  miss  it  for  worlds,"  said  Brother 
Copas  gravely. 

He  had  disjointed  and  packed  up  his  rod  by  this 
time,  and  the  two  were  walking  back  towards  St. 
Hospital. 

"You  relieve  me  more  than  I  can  say.  Your  help 
will  be  invaluable." 

Brother  Copas  was  apparently  deaf  to  this  compli- 
ment. ' 

"  You  '11   excuse  me,"   he  said  after  a  moment, 

"but  I  gather  that  the  whole  scheme  must  be  well 

under  weigh,  since  you  have  arrived  at  allocating  the 

proceeds.     Experience    tells    me    that    all    amateurs 

205 


BROTHER  COPAS 

start  with  wanting  to  act  something;  when  they  see 
that  desire  near  to  realisation,  and  not  before,  they 
cast  about  for  the  charity  which  is  to  deserve  their 
efforts.  .  .  .  May  I  ask  what  part  you  have  chosen  ?" 

"  I  had  thoughts  of  Alberic  de  Blanchminster,  in  an 
Episode  of  the  '  Founding  of  St.  Hospital.'  " 

"Alberic  de  Blanchminster?" 

They  had  reached  the  outer  court  of  the  hospital, 
and  Brother  Copas,  halting  to  take  snuff,  eyed  the 
Chaplain  as  if  taking  his  measure. 

"But  the  Committee,  in  compliment  to  my  inches, 
are  pressing  me  to  take  William  the  Conqueror," 
said  Mr.  Colt  almost  bashfully. 

"I  too  should  advise  it,  if  we  are  to  adhere  to  his- 
tory; though,  to  be  sure,  from  the  sole  mention  of 
him  in  the  chronicle,  our  founder,  Alberic,  appears  to 
have  been  a  sportsman.  'Nam,  quodam  die,  quia 
perdiderat  accipitum  suum  cum  erat  sub  divo,  detrexit 
sibi  bracas  et  posteriora  nuda  ostendit  caelo  in  signum 
opprobrii  et  convitii  atque  derisionis.' — You  remem- 
ber the  passage." 

He  paused  mischievously,  knowing  well  enough 
that  the  Chaplain  would  laugh,  pretending  to  have 
followed  the  Latin.  Sure  enough,  Mr.  Colt  laughed 
heartily. 

"About  William  the  Conqueror,  though — 

But  at  this  moment  Corona  came  skipping  through 
the  archway. 

206 


PUPPETS 

"Uncle  Copas!"  she  hailed,  the  vault  echoing  to 
her  childish  treble.  "You  look  as  though  you  had 
mistaken  Mr.  Colt  for  a  visitor,  and  were  telling  him 
all  about  the  history  of  the  place.  Oh!  I  know  that 
you  never  go  the  round  with  visitors;  but  seeing  it 's 
only  me  and  Timmy — look  at  him,  please!  He  's 
been  made  a  Beauchamp  Brother,  not  half  an  hour 
ago.  If  only  you  'd  be  guide  to  us  for  once,  and 
make  him  feel  his  privileges.  ...  I  dare  say  Mr. 
Colt  won't  mind  coming  too,"  she  wound  up  tactfully. 

"Shall  we?"  suggested  the  Chaplain,  after  asking 
and  receiving  permission  to  inspect  the  doll. 

"Confound  it!"  muttered  Brother  Copas  to  him- 
self. "  I  cannot  even  begin  to  enjoy  a  fool  nowadays 
but  that  blessed  child  happens  along  to  rebuke  me." 

Aloud  he  said — 

"If  you  command,  little  one.  .  .  .  But  where  do 
we  begin  ?  " 

"At  the  beginning."  Corona  took  charge  of  him, 
with  a  nod  at  the  Chaplain.  "We're  pilgrims,  all 
four  of  us,  home  from  the  Holy  Land;  and  we  start 
by  knocking  up  Brother  Manby  and  just  perishing 
for  a  drink." 


207 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   PERVIGILIUM 

"'NOW  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 

loved,  love  anew! 
It  is  Spring,  it  is  chorussing  Spring:  'tis  the  birthday  of 

earth  and  for  you  ! 
It  is  Spring;  and  the  Loves  and  the  birds  wing  together, 

and  woo  to  accord 
Where  the  bough  to  the  rain  has  unbraided  her  locks  as  a 

bride  to  her  lord. 
For  she  walks — She  our  Lady,  our  Mistress  of  Wedlock, — 

the  woodlands  atween, 
And  the  bride-bed  she  weaves  them,  with  myrtle  enlacing, 

with  curtains  of  green. 
Look,  list  ye  the  law  of  Dione,  aloft  and  enthroned  in 

the  blue:— 
Now  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 

loved,  love  anew ! ' 

H'm,    h'm — tolerable    only !     'Aloft    and    established 

in  blue' — is  that  better?" 

"Uncle  Copas,  whatever  are  you  doing?" 
Corona  looked  up  from  her  page  of  irregular  verbs, 

and  across  to  her  preceptor  as  he  sat  muttering  and 

scribbling. 

208 


THE  PERVIGILIUM 

"The  idlest  thing  in  the  world,  child.  Trans- 
lating." 

"  But  you  told  me  that  next  week,  if  I  learned  these 
verbs,  you  would  let  me  begin  to  translate." 

"To  be  sure  I  did.  You  must  go  on  translating 
and  translating  until,  like  me,  you  ought  to  know 
better.  Then  you  throw  it  all  away." 

"I  suppose  I  shall  understand,  one  of  these  fine 
days,"  sighed  Corona.  "  But,  uncle,  you  won't  mind 
my  asking  a  question?  I  really  do  want  to  find  out 
about  these  things.  .  .  .  And  I  really  do  want  to 
learn  Latin,  ever  since  you  said  it  was  the  only  way 
to  find  out  all  that  St.  Hospital  means." 

"Did  I  say  that?  I  ought,  of  course,  to  have  said 
that  Latin  was  worth  learning  for  its  own  sake." 

"I  guess,"  said  Corona  sagely,  "you  thought  you  'd 
take  the  likeliest  way  with  me." 

"O  woman!  woman!  .  .  .  But  what  was  your 
question?" 

"Sometimes  I  wake  early  and  lie  in  bed  thinking. 
I  was  thinking,  only  yesterday  morning,  if  people 
are  able  to  put  into  English  all  that  was  ever  written 
in  Latin,  why  don't  they  do  it  and  save  other  people 
the  trouble?" 

"Now  I  suppose,"  said  Brother  Copas,  "that  in 
the  United  States  of  America — land  of  labour-saving 
appliances — that  is  just  how  it  would  strike  every- 
one?" 

209 


BROTHER  COPAS 

He  knew  that  this  would  nettle  her.  But,  looking 
up  hotly,  she  caught  his  smile  and  laughed. 

"Well,  but  why?"   she  demanded. 

"  Because  the  more  it  was  the  same  thing  the  more 
it  would  be  different.  There  's  only  one  way  with 
Latin  and  Greek.  You  must  let  'em  penetrate:  soak 
'em  into  yourself,  get  'em  into  your  nature  slowly, 
through  the  pores  of  the  skin." 

"It  sounds  like  sitting  in  a  bath." 

"That's  just  it.  It's  a  baptism  first  and  a  bath 
afterwards;  but  the  more  it 's  a  bath,  the  more  you 
remember  it 's  a  baptism." 

"I  guess  you  have  that  right,  though  I  don't 
follow,"  Corona  admitted.  "  There  's  something  in 
Latin  makes  you  proud.  Only  yesterday  I  was  gas- 
sing to  three  girls  about  knowing  amo,  amas,  amat; 
and,  next  thing,  you  '11  say,  '  I  'd  like  you  to  know 
Ovid,'  and  I  '11  say,  '  Mr.  Ovid,  I  'm  pleased  to  have 
met  you' — like  what  happens  in  the  States  when  you 
shake  hands  with  a  professor.  All  the  same,  I  don't 
see  what  there  is  in  amo,  amas,  amat  to  make  the  gas." 

"Wait  till  you  come  to  eras  amet  qui  nunquam 
amavit." 

"Is  that  what  you  were  translating?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  translate  it  for  me,  please." 

"You  shall  construe  for  yourself.  Cras  means  'to- 
morrow.' Amct — 

210 


THE  PERVIGILIUM 

"  That 's  the  present  subjunctive.  Let  me  see — 
' he  may  love.'" 

"Try  again." 

"Or 'let  him  love.'" 

"Right.     'To-morrow  let  him  love.'     Quif" 

"'Who.'" 

"  Nunquam?" 

"'Never '-I  know  that  too." 

"  Amavit  f" 

"Perfect,  active,  third  person  singular — 'he  has 
loved.'  " 

"  Qui  being  the  subject " 

' '  Who — never — has  loved.'  " 

"Right  as  ninepence  again.  'To-morrow  let  him 
love  who  has  never  loved.'  " 

"But,"  objected  Corona,  "it  seems  so  easy! — and 
here  you  have  been  for  quite  half  an  hour  muttering 
and  shaking  your  head  over  it,  and  taking  you  can't 
think  what  a  lot  of  nasty  snuff." 

"Have  I?"  Brother  Copas  sought  for  his  watch. 
"Heavens,  child!  The  hour  has  struck  these  ten 
minutes  ago.  Why  didn't  you  remind  me?" 

"Because  I  thought  'twouldn't  be  manners.  But, 
of  course,  if  I  'd  known  you  were  wasting  your  time, 
and  over  anything  so  easy " 

"Not  quite  so  easy  as  you  suppose,  miss.    To  be- 
gin with,  the  original  is  in  verse;  a  late  Latin  poem  in 
a  queer  metre,  and  by  whom  written  nobody  knows. 
211 


BROTHER  COPAS 

But  you  are  quite  right  about  my  wasting  my  time. 
.  .  .  What  troubles  me  is  that  I  have  been  wasting 
yours,  when  you  ought  to  have  been  out  at  play  in  the 
sun." 

"Please  don't  mention  that,"  said  Corona  politely. 
"It  has  been  fun  enough  watching  you  frowning  and 
tapping  your  fingers,  and  writing  something  down 
and  scratching  it  out  the  next  moment.  What  is  it 
all  about,  Uncle  Copas?" 

"  It — er — is  called  the  Pervigilium  Vcneris  ;  that 's 
to  say  The  Vigil  of  Venus.  But  I  suppose  that  con- 
veys nothing  to  you?" 

He  thrust  his  spectacles  high  on  his  forehead  and 
smiled  at  her  vaguely  across  the  table. 

"Of  course  it  doesn't.  I  don't  know  what  a  Vigil 
means;  or  Venus — whether  it 's  a  person  or  a  place; 
or  why  the  Latin  is  late,  as  you  call  it.  Late  for 
what?" 

Brother  Copas  laughed  dryly. 

"  Late  for  me,  let 's  say.  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was 
wasting  my  time?  And  Venus  is  the  goddess  of 
Love:  some  day — alas  the  day! — you  '11  be  proud  to 
make  her  acquaintance.  .  .  .  Cras  amet  qui  nun- 
quam  amavit." 

"Perhaps  if  you  read  it  to  me " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  child:  the  thing  is  late  in  half  a  dozen  differ- 
ent ways.  The  young,  whom  it  understands,  cannot 
212 


THE  PERVIGILIUM 

understand  it:  the  old,  who  arrive  at  understand- 
ing, look  after  it,  a  thing  lost.  Go,  dear:  don't  let 
me  waste  your  time  as  well  as  an  old  man's." 

But  when  she  had  gone  he  sat  on  and  wasted  an- 
other hour  in  translating — 

"  Time  was  that  a  rain-cloud  begat  her,  impregning  the 
heave  of  the  deep. 

Twixt  hooves  of  sea-horses  a-scatter,  stampeding  the  dol- 
phins as  sheep, 

Lo!  born  of  that  bridal  Dione,  rainbowed  and  bespent  of 
its  dew: 

Now  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 
loved,  love  anew! 

"She,  she,  with  her  gem-dripping  finger  enamels  the  wreath 
of  the  year; 

She,  she,  when  the  maid-bud  is  nubile  and  swelling,  winds- 
whispers  ancar, 

Disguising  her  voice  in  the  Zephyr's — 'So  secret  the  bed! 
and  thou  shy  f 

She,  she,  when  the  midsummer  night  is  a-hush  draws  the 
dew  from  on  high; 

Dew  bright  with  the  tears  of  its  origin,  dew  with  its  weight 
on  the  bough, 

Misdoubting  and  clinging  and  trembling — 'Now,  now 
must  I  fall  f  Is  it  now  f" 

Brother  Copas  pushed  the  paper  from  him. 
"What  folly  is  this,"  he  mused,  "that  I,  who  have 
always  scoffed  at  translations,  sit  here  trying  to  trans- 
213 


BROTHER  COPAS 

late  this  most  untranslatable  thing?  Pah!  Matthew 
Arnold  was  a  great  man,  and  he  stood  up  to  lecture 
the  University  of  Oxford  on  translating  Homer.  He 
proved  excellently  well  that  Homer  was  rapid;  that 
Homer  was  plain  and  direct;  that  Homer  was  noble. 
He  took  translation  after  translation,  and  proved — 
proved  beyond  doubting — that  each  translator  had 
failed  in  this  or  in  that;  this  or  that  being  alike  essen- 
tial. Then,  having  worked  out  his  sum,  he  sat  down 
and  translated  a  bit  or  two  of  Homer  to  encourage  us, 
and  the  result  was  mere  bosh. 

"The  truth  being,  he  is  guilty  of  a  tomfoolery 
among  principles  at  the  start.  If  by  any  chance  we 
could,  in  English,  find  the  right  way  to  translate 
Homer,  why  should  we  waste  it  on  translating  him? 
We  had  a  hundred  times  better  be  writing  Epics  of 
our  own. 

"It  cannot  be  done.  If  it  could,  it  ought  not. 
.  .  .  The  only  way  of  getting  at  Homer  is  to  soak 
oneself  in  him.  The  average  Athenian  was  soaked 
in  him  as  the  average  Englishman  is  in  the  Authorised 
Version  of  the  Psalms.  .  .  . 

"Yet  I  sit  here,  belying  all  my  principles,  attempt- 
ing to  translate  a  thing  more  difficult  than  Homer. 

"It  was  she,  this  child,  set  me  going  upon  it!" 

Brother  Copas  pulled  the  paper  towards  him  again. 
By  the  end  of  another  hour  he  had  painfully  achieved 
this:— 

214 


THE  PERVIGILIUM 

"'Go,  maidens,'  Our  Lady  commands,  'while  the  myrtle  is 

green  in  the  grove, 
Take  the  Boy  to  your  escort.'    But  'Ah!'  cry  the  maidens, 

'What  trust  is  in  Love 
Keeping  holiday  too,  while  he  weareth  his  archery,  tools 

of  his  trade  f  ' 
— 'Go:  he  lays  tJiem  aside,  an  apprentice  released — you  may 

wend  unafraid: 
See,  I  bid  him  disarm,  he  disarms.     Mother-naked  I  bid 

him  to  go, 
And  he  goes    mother-naked.     What  flame  can  he    shoot 

without  arrow  or  bowf 
— Yet  beware  ye  of  Cupid,  ye  maidens!    Beware  most  of 

all  when  he  charms 
As  a  child:  for  the  more  he  runs  naked,  the  more  he's  a 

strong  man-at-arms'  " 


215 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MERCHESTER   PREPARES 

I  MUST  not  overload  these  slight  pages  by  chronicling 
at  length  how  Merchester  caught  and  developed  the 
Pageant  fever.  But  to  Mr.  Colt  must  be  given  his 
share  of  the  final  credit.  He  worked  like  a  horse, 
no  doubt  of  it;  spurred  constantly  on  his  tender 
side — his  vanity — by  the  hard  riding  of  Mr.  Julius 
Bamberger,  M.P.  He  pioneered  the  movement.  He 
(pardon  this  riot  of  simile  and  metaphor)  cut  a  way 
through  the  brushwood,  piled  the  first  faggots,  ap- 
plied the  torch,  set  the  heather  afire.  He  canvassed 
the  Bishop,  the  Dean  and  Chapter,  the  Sunday  Schools, 
the  Church  Lads'  Brigade,  the  Girls'  Friendly  So- 
ciety, the  Boy  Scouts.  He  canvassed  the  tradespeo- 
ple, the  professional  classes,  the  widowed  and  maiden 
ladies  resident  around  the  Close. 

In  all  these  quarters  he  met  with  success — varying, 
indeed,  but  on  the  whole  gratifying.  But  the  problem 
was,  how  to  fan  the  flame  to  reach  and  take  hold  of 
more  seasoned  timber? — opulent  citizens,  county  mag- 
nates; men  who,  once  committed,  would  not  retract; 
ponderable  subscribers  to  the  Guarantee  Fund; 
neither  tinder  nor  brushwood,  but  logs  to  receive  the 
216 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

fire  and  retain  it  in  a  solid  core.  For  weeks,  for  a 
couple  of  months,  the  flame  took  no  hold  of  these: 
it  reached  them  only  to  die  down  and  disappoint. 

Nor  was  Mr.  Isidore,  during  this  time,  the  least 
part  of  our  Chaplain's  trial.  Mr.  Julius  might  flat- 
ter, proclaiming  him  a  born  organiser:  but  this  was 
small  consolation  when  Mr.  Isidore  (an  artist  by 
temperament)  stamped  and  swore  over  every  small 
hitch. 

"  Sobscribtions  ?  Zat  is  your  affaire,  whad  the 
devil!" 

Or  again:  "Am  I  a  dog  to  be  bozzered  by  your 
General  Committees  or  your  Influenzial  Batrons? 
.  .  .  You  wandt  a  Bageant,  heinf  Var'y  well,  I 
brovide  it:  I  will  mek  a  sogcess.  Go  to  h — 11  for 
your  influenzial  patrons:  or  go  to  Julius.  He  can 
lick  ze  boot,  not  I!" 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Julius,  while  willing  enough 
to  spend  money  for  which  he  foresaw  a  satisfactory 
return,  had  no  mind  to  risk  it  until  assured  of  the 
support  of  local  "Society."  He  could  afford  some 
thousands  of  pounds  better  than  a  public  fiasco. 

"We  must  have  the  County  behind  us,"  he  kept 
chanting. 

Afterwards,  looking  back  on  the  famous  Merchester 

Pageant,  Mr.  Colt  accurately  dated  its  success  from 

the  hour  when  he  called  on  Lady  Shaftesbury  and 

enlisted  her  to  open  the  annual  Sale  of  Work  of  the 

217 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Girls'  Friendly  Society.  Sir  John  Shaftesbury,  some- 
what late  in  life,  had  married  a  wife  many  years  his 
junior;  a  dazzling  beauty,  a  dashing  horse-woman, 
and  moreover  a  lady  who,  having  spent  the  years  of  her 
eligible  maidenhood  largely  among  politicians  and 
racehorses,  had  acquired  the  knack  and  habit  of  liv- 
ing in  the  public  eye.  She  adored  her  husband,  as 
did  everyone  who  knew  him:  but  life  at  Shaftesbury 
Court  had  its  longueurs  even  in  the  hunting  season. 
Sir  John  would  (he  steadily  declared)  as  lief  any  day 
go  to  prison  as  enter  Parliament — a  reluctance  to 
which  Mr.  Bamberger  owed  his  seat  for  Merchester. 
Finding  herself  thus  headed  off  one  opportunity  of 
making  tactful  little  public  speeches,  in  raiments  to 
which  the  Press  would  give  equal  prominence,  Lady 
Shaftesbury  had  turned  her  thoughts  to  good  work, 
even  before  Mr.  Colt  called  with  his  petition. 

She  assented  to  it  with  a  very  pretty  grace.  Her 
speech  at  the  Sale  of  Work  was  charming,  and  she 
talked  to  her  audience  about  the  Empire;  reminded 
them  that  they  were  all  members  of  one  body;  called 
them  her  "dear  Girl  Friendlies":  and  hoped,  though 
a  new-comer,  in  future  to  see  a  great  deal  more  of 
them.  They  applauded  this  passage  de  bon  cccur,  and 
indeed  pronounced  the  whole  speech  "So  womanly!" 
At  its  close  Mr.  Colt,  proposing  a  vote  of  thanks,  in- 
sinuated something  "anent  a  more  ambitious  under- 
taking, in  which  (if  we  can  only  engage  Lady  Shaftes- 
218 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

bury's  active  sympathy)  we  may  realise  a  cherished 
dream.  I  fear,"  proceeded  Mr.  Colt,  "that  I  am  a 
sturdy  beggar.  I  can  only  plead  that  the  cause  is  no 
mere  local  one,  but  in  the  truest  sense  national — nay 
imperial.  For  where  but  in  the  story  of  Merchester 
can  be  found  the  earliest  inspiration  of  those  countless 
deeds  which  won  the  Empire?" 

Later,  when  Lady  Shaftesbury  asked  to  what  he 
alluded,  he  discoursed  on  the  project  of  the  Pageant 
with  dexterity  and  no  little  tact. 

"What  a  ripping  idea!  .  .  .  Now  I  come  to  re- 
member, my  husband  did  say  casually,  the  other  day, 
that  Mr.  Bamberger  had  been  sounding  him  about 
something  of  the  sort.  But  Jack's  English,  you 
know,  and  a  Whig  at  that.  The  mere  notion  of 
dressing-up  or  play-acting  makes  him  want  to  run 
away  and  hide.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  I  know  all 
about  pageants!  I  saw  one  at  Warwick  Castle — 
was  it  last  year  or  the  year  before?  .  .  .  There  was 
a  woman  on  horseback — I  forget  what  historical 
character  she  represented;  it  wasn't  Queen  Elizabeth, 
I  know,  and  it  couldn't  have  been  Lady  Godiva  be- 
cause— well,  because  to  begin  with,  she  knew  how 
to  dress.  She  wore  a  black  velvet  habit,  with  seed- 
pearls,  which  sounds  like  Queen  Henrietta  Maria. 
Anyway,  everyone  agreed  she  had  a  perfect  seat  in  the 
saddle.  Is  that  the  sort  of  thing — 'Fair  Rosamund 
goes  a-hawking  with  King,  er,  Whoever-he-was'?" 
219 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Mr.  Colt  regretted  that  Fair  Rosamund  had  no 
historical  connection  with  Merchester.  .  .  .  No,  and 
equally  out  of  the  question  was  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots 
laying  her  neck  on  the  block. 

"Besides,  she  couldn't  very  well  do  that  on  horse- 
back. And  Mazeppa  was  a  man,  wasn't  he?" 

"  If,"  said  Mr.  Colt  diplomatically,  "  we  can  only 
prevail  upon  one  or  two  really  influential  la-dies  to 
see  the  thing  in  that  light,  details  could  be  arranged 
later.  We  have  not  yet  decided  on  the  Episodes. 
.  .  .  But  notoriously  where  there  's  a  will  there  's  a 
way." 

Lady  Shaftesbury  pondered  this  conversation  while 
the  motor  whirled  her  homewards.  She  had  begun 
to  wish  that  Jack  (as  she  called  her  lord)  would  strike 
out  a  bolder  line  in  county  affairs,  if  his  ambition  con- 
fined him  to  these.  He  was  already  (through  no 
search  of  his  own)  Chairman  of  the  County  Council, 
and  Chairman  of  Quarter  Sessions,  and  was  picked 
to  serve  as  High  Sheriff  next  year.  He  ought  to  do 
something  to  make  his  shrievalty  memorable  .  .  . 
and,  moreover,  the  Lord-Lieutenant  was  an  old  man. 

In  the  library  that  evening  after  dinner  she  opened 
fire.  The  small  function  at  the  Girls'  Friendly  had 
been  a  success;  but  she  wished  to  do  something  more 
for  Merchester — "  where  we  ought  to  be  a  real  influ- 
ence for  good — living  as  we  do  so  close  to  it." 
220 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

She  added,  "I  hear  that  Mr.  Bamberger's  seat  is 
by  no  means  safe,  and  another  General  Election  may 
be  on  us  at  any  moment.  ...  I  know  how  little  you 
like  Mr.  Bamberger  personally:  but  after  all,  and 
until  you  will  consent  to  take  his  place — Mr.  Bamber- 
ger stands  between  us  and  the  rising  tide  of  Socialism. 
I  was  discussing  this  with  Mr.  Colt  to-day." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Colt?"   asked  Sir  John. 

"You  must  have  met  him.  He  is  Chaplain  of  St. 
Hospital,  and  quite  a  personality  in  Merchester  .  .  . 
though  I  don't  know,"  pursued  Lady  Shaftesbury, 
musing,  "that  one  would  altogether  describe  him 
as  a  gentleman.  But  ought  we  to  be  too  particular 
when  the  cause  is  at  stake,  and  heaven  knows  how 
soon  the  Germans  will  be  invading  us?" 

The  end  was  that  Sir  John,  who  loved  his  young 
wife,  gave  her  a  free  hand,  of  which  she  made  the 
most.  Almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  found 
himself  Chairman  of  a  General  Committee,  summon- 
ing a  Sub-Committee  of  Ways  and  Means.  At  the 
first  meeting  he  announced  that  his  lady  had  con- 
sented to  set  aside,  throughout  the  winter  months, 
one  day  a  week  from  hunting,  and  offered  Shaftesbury 
Hall  as  head-quarters  of  the  Costume  Committee. 

Thereupon  it  was  really  astonishing  with  what  alac- 
rity not  only  the  "best  houses"  around  Merchester, 
but  the  upper-middle-class  (its  damsels  especially) 
caught  the  contagion.  Within  a  week  "Are  you 
221 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Pageantising ? "  or,  in  more  condensed  slang,  "Do 
you  Padge?"  became  the  stock  question  at  all  social 
gatherings  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Close.  To 
this  a  stock  answer  would  be — 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  suppose  so."  Here  the 
respondent  would  simulate  a  slight  boredom.  "  One 
will  have  to  mix  with  the  most  impossible  people,  of 
course" — Lady  Shaftesbury  had  won  great  popularity 
by  insisting  that,  in  a  business  so  truly  national,  no 
class  distinctions  were  to  be  drawn — "but  anyhow  it 
will  fill  up  the  off-days  this  winter." 

Lady  Shaftesbury  herself,  after  some  pretty  de- 
liberation, decided  to  enact  the  part  of  the  Empress 
Maud,  and  escape  on  horseback  from  King  Stephen 
of  Blois.  Mr.  Colt  and  Mr.  Isidore  Bamberger  to- 
gether waited  on  Brother  Copas  with  a  request  that 
he  would  write  the  libretto  for  this  Episode. 

"But  it  was  only  last  week  you  turned  me  on  to 
Episode  VI — King  Hal  and  the  Emperor  Charles  the 
Fifth,"  Copas  protested. 

"We  are  hoping  you  will  write  this  for  us  too," 
urged  Mr.  Colt.  "  It  oughtn't  to  take  you  long,  you 
know.  To  begin  with,  no  one  knows  very  much 
about  that  particular  period." 

"The  less  known  the  better,  if  we  may  trust  the 
Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle.  A  few  realistic  pictures  of 
the  diversions  of  the  upper  classes — 

"Hawking  was  one,  I  believe?"  opined  Mr.  Colt. 
222 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

"  Yes,  and  another  was  hanging  the  poor  by  their 
heels  over  a  smoky  fire,  and  yet  another  was  shutting 
them  up  in  a  close  cell  into  which  had  been  inserted 
a  few  toads  and  adders." 

"Her  ladyship  suggests  a  hawking  scene,  in  the 
midst  of  which  she  is  surprised  by  King  Stephen  and 
his,  er,  myrmidons — if  that  be  the  correct  term — 

"It  is  at  least  as  old  as  Achilles." 

"She  escapes  from  him  on  horseback.  ...  At 
this  point  she  wants  to  know  if  we  can  introduce  a 
water-jump." 

"Nothing  could  be  easier,  in  a  blank  verse  com- 
position," assented  Brother  Copas  gravely. 

"You  see,  there  is  very  little  writing  required. 
Just  enough  dialogue  to  keep  the  thing  going.  .  .  . 
Her  ladyship  is  providing  her  own  riding-habit  and 
those  of  her  attendant  ladies,  for  whom  she  has 
chosen  six  of  the  most  beautiful  maidens  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, quite  irrespective  of  class.  The  dresses 
are  to  be  gorgeous." 

"They  will  form  a  pleasing  contrast,  then,  to  King 
Stephen,  whose  riding-breeches,  as  we  know,  'cost 
him  but  a  crown/  .  .  .  Very  well,  I  will  'cut  the 
cackle  and  come  to  the  bosses.'  And  you,  Mr.  Isi- 
dore ?  Do  I  read  in  your  eye  that  you  desire  a  similar 
literary  restraint  in  your  Episode  of  King  Hal?" 

"  Ach,  yes,"  grinned  Mr.  Isidore.  "  Cut  ze  caggle — 
cabital!  I  soggest  in  zat  Ebisode  we  haf  a  Ballet." 
223 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"A  Ballet?" 

"A  Ballet  of  Imberial  Exbansion — ze  first  English 
discofferies  ofer  sea — ze  natives  brought  back  in 
brocession  to  mek  sobmission — 

"Devilish  pretty  substitute  for  Thomas  Cromwell 
and  the  Reformation!" 

"It  was  zere  lay  ze  future  of  Englandt,  hein?" 

"I  see,"  said  Brother  Copas  thoughtfully;  "pro- 
vided you  make  the  Ballets  of  our  nation,  you  don't 
care  if  your  brother  makes  its  laws." 

These  preparations  (he  noted)  had  a  small  by- 
product pleasantly  affecting  St.  Hospital.  Mr.  Colt, 
in  his  anxiety  to  enlist  the  whole-hearted  services 
of  the  Brethren  (who  according  to  design  were  to 
serve  as  a  sort  of  subsidiary  chorus  to  the  Pageant, 
appearing  and  reappearing,  still  in  their  antique 
garb,  in  a  succession  of  scenes  supposed  to  extend 
over  many  centuries),  had  suddenly  taken  the  line 
of  being  "all  things  to  all  men,"  and  sensibly  relaxed 
the  zeal  of  his  proselytising  as  well  as  the  rigour  of 
certain  regulations  offensive  to  the  more  Protestant 
of  his  flock. 

"You  may  growl,"  said  Brother  Copas  to  Brother 
Warboise,  "  but  this  silly  Pageant  is  bringing  us  more 
peace  than  half  a  dozen  Petitions." 

Brother  Warboise  was,  in  fact,  growling  because 
for  three  months  and  more  nothing  had  been  heard 
of  the  Petition. 

224 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

"You  may  depend,"  said  Copas  soothingly,  "the 
Bishop  put  the  thing  away  in  his  skirt  pocket  and 
forgot  all  about  it.  I  happen  to  know  that  he  must 
be  averse  to  turning  out  his  skirt  pockets,  for  I  once 
saw  him  surreptitiously  smuggle  away  a  mayonnaise 
sandwich  there.  It  was  at  a  Deanery  garden  party; 
and  I,  having  been  invited  to  hand  the  ices  and  look 
picturesque,  went  on  looking  picturesque  and  pre- 
tended not  to  see.  ...  I  ought  to  have  told  you, 
when  you  asked  me  to  write  it,  that  such  was  the  in- 
variable fate  of  my  compositions." 

Meanwhile,  it  certainly  seemed  that  a  truce  had 
been  called  to  the  internal  dissensions  of  St.  Hospital. 
On  the  pageant-ground  one  afternoon,  in  the  midst 
of  a  very  scratchy  rehearsal,  Brother  Copas  found 
himself  by  chance  at  the  Chaplain's  side.  The  two 
had  been  watching  in  silence  for  a  full  five  minutes, 
when  he  heard  Mr.  Colt  addressing  him  in  a  tone  of 
unusual  friendliness. 

"Wonderful  how  it  seems  to  link  us  up,  eh?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?" 

"I  was  thinking,  just  then,  of  the  St.  Hospital 
uniform,  which  you  have  the  honour  to  wear.  It 
seems — or  Mr.  Isidore  has  the  knack  of  making  it 
seem — the,  er,  foil  of  the  whole  Pageant.  It  outlasts 
all  the  more  brilliant  fashions." 

"Poverty,  sir,  is  perduring.  It  is  in  everything 
just  because  it  is  out  of  everything.  We  inherit  time, 
if  not  the  earth." 

225 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"But  particularly,"  said  Mr.  Colt,  "I  was  thinking 
of  the  corporate  unity  it  seems  to  give  us,  and  to  pass 
on,  through  us,  to  the  whole  story  of  Merchester." 

"Aye,  we  are  always  with  you." 

Afterwards  Brother  Copas  repented  that  he  had 
not  answered  more  graciously:  for  afterwards,  look- 
ing back,  he  perceived  that,  in  some  way,  the  Pageant 
had  actually  helped  to  bring  back  a  sense  of  "  corporate 
unity"  to  St.  Hospital. 

Even  then,  and  for  months  later,  he  missed  to 
recognise  Corona's  share  in  it.  What  was  she  but  a 
child? 

"Is  it  true  what  I  hear?"  asked  Mrs.  Royle,  in- 
tercepting him  one  day  as  he  carried  his  plate  of  fast- 
cooling  meat  from  the  kitchen. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Brother  Copas. 

"  They  tell  me  Bonaday's  daughter  has  been  singled 
out  among  all  the  school  children — Greycoats  and 
others — to  be  Queen  of  the  May,  or  something  of  the 
kind,  in  this  here  Pageant." 

"Yes,  that  is  a  fact." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  I  suppose  it's  part  of  your  sneering 
way  to  make  little  of  it.  7  call  it  an  honour  to  St. 
Hospital." 

"The  deuce  you  do?" 

"  And  what 's  more,"  added  Mrs.  Royle,  "  she 
mustn't  let  us  down  by  appearing  in  rags." 

"I  hope  we  can  provide  against  that." 
226 


MERCHESTER  PREPARES 

"What  I  meant  to  say,"  the  woman  persisted, 
"was  that  you  men  don't  probably  understand.  If 
there  's  to  be  a  dance,  or  any  such  caper,  she  '11  be 
lifting  her  skirts.  Well,  for  the  credit  of  St.  Hos- 
pital, I  'd  like  to  overhaul  the  child's  undercloth- 
ing, and  see  that  she  goes  shipshape  and  Bristol 
fashion." 

Brother  Copas  thanked  her.  He  began  to  perceive 
that  Mrs.  Royle,  that  detestable  woman,  had  her 
good  points — or,  at  any  rate,  her  soft  spot. 

It  became  embarrassing,  though,  when  Mrs.  Cleri- 
hew accosted  him  next  day  with  a  precisely  similar 
request. 

"And  I  might  mention,"  added  Mrs.  Clerihew, 
"that  I  have  a  lace  stomacher-frill  which  was  gove 
to  me  by  no  less  than  the  Aonourable  Hedith,  fifth 
daughter  of  the  second  Baron  Glantyre.  She  died 
unmarried,  previous  to  which  she  used  frequently 
to  honour  me  with  her  confidence.  This  being  a 
historical  occasion,  I  'd  spare  it." 

Yes;  it  was  true.  Corona  was  to  be  a  queen, 
among  many,  in  the  Merchester  Pageant. 

It  all  happened  through  Mr.  Simeon. 

Mr.  Simeon's  children  had,  one  and  all,  gone  for 

their  education  to  the  Greycoats'  School,  which  lies 

just  beyond  the  west  end  of  the  Cathedral.     He  loved 

to  think  of  them  as  growing  up  within  its  shadow. 

227 


BROTHER  COPAS 

.  .  .  One  Tuesday  at  dinner  the  five-year-old  Agatha 
popped  out  a  question — 

"Daddy,  if  the  Cafederal  fell  down  while  we  were 
in  school,  would  it  fall  on  top  of  us?" 

"God  forbid,  child.  But  why  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion?" 

"Because  when  we  went  to  school  this  morning 
some  workpeople  had  dug  a  hole,  close  by  that  end — 
quite  a  big  pit  it  was.  So  I  went  near  the  edge  to 
look  down,  and  one  of  the  men  said,  'Take  care, 
missy,  or  you  '11  tumble  in  and  be  drowned.'  I  told 
him  that  I  knew  better,  because  people  couldn't 
build  cafederals  on  water.  He  told  me  that  was  the 
way  they  had  built  ours,  and  he  held  my  hand  for 
me  to  have  a  look.  He  was  right,  too.  The  pit  was 
half-full  of  water.  He  said  that  unless  we  looked 
sharp  the  whole  Cafederal  would  come  down  on 
our  heads.  .  .  .  I* don't  think  it's  safe  for  me  to 
go  to  school  any  more,  do  you?"  insinuated  small 
Agatha. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Mr.  Simeon  had  to  visit  the 
Greycoats  that  very  afternoon.  He  had  written  a 
little  play  for  the  children — boys  and  girls — to  act 
at  Christmas.  It  was  not  a  play  of  the  sort  desider- 
ated by  Mrs.  Simeon — the  sort  to  earn  forty  thousand 
pounds  in  royalties;  nor,  to  speak  accurately,  had 
he  written  it.  He  had  in  fact  patched  together  a  few 
artless  scenes  from  an  old  Miracle  Play — The  Life 
228 


MERCHESTER    PREPARES 

of  Saint  Meriadoc — discovered  by  him  in  the  Ven- 
ables  Library;  and  had  tinkered  out  some  rhymes 
(the  book  being  a  prose  translation  from  the  Breton 
original).  "A  poor  thing,"  then,  and  very  little  of 
it  his  own — but  Miss  Champernowne  opined  that  it 
would  be  a  novelty,  while  the  children  enjoyed  the 
rehearsals,  and  looked  forward  to  the  fun  of  "dress- 
ing-up." 

Rehearsals  were  held  twice  a  week,  on  Tuesdays 
and  Thursdays,  in  the  last  hour  of  the  afternoon 
session.  This  afternoon,  on  his  way  to  the  school, 
Mr.  Simeon  found  that  Agatha  had  indeed  spoken 
truth.  Five  or  six  men  were  busy,  digging,  probing, 
sounding,  around  a  large  hole  close  under  the  northeast 
corner  of  the  Lady  Chapel.  The  foreman  wore  a 
grave  face,  and  in  answer  to  Mr.  Simeon's  inquiries 
allowed  that  the  mischief  was  serious;  so  serious 
that  the  Dean  and  Chapter  had  sent  for  a  diver  to 
explore  the  foundations  and  report.  The  foreman 
further  pointed  out  certain  ominous  cracks  in  the 
masonry  overhead. 

Just  then  the  great  clock  chimed,  warning  Mr. 
Simeon  away.  .  .  .  But  the  peril  of  his  beloved  Ca- 
thedral so  haunted  him  that  he  arrived  at  the  school- 
door  as  one  distraught. 

Rehearsal  always  took  place  in  the  girls'  school- 
room, the  boys  coming  in  from  their  part  of  the 
building  to  clear  the  desks  away  and  arrange  them 
229 


BROTHER  COPAS 

close  along  the  walls.  They  were  busy  at  it  when  he 
entered.  He  saw  them:  but — 

"He  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart," 

and  that  was  in  the  Close  outside — ai>0i,  $i\r)  iv 
TrarpiBi  yaig. 

From  the  start  he  allowed  the  rehearsal  to  get 
hopelessly  out  of  hand.  The  children  took  charge; 
they  grew  more  and  more  fractious,  unruly.  Miss 
Champernowne  chid  them  in  vain.  The  schoolroom, 
in  fact,  was  a  small  pandemonium,  when  of  a  sudden 
the  door  opened  and  two  visitors  entered — Mr.  Colt 
and  Mr.  Isidore  Bamberger. 

"A — ach  so!"  intoned  Mr.  Isidore,  and  at  the 
sound  of  his  appalling  guttural  Babel  hushed  itself, 
unable  to  compete.  He  inquired  what  was  going 
forward;  was  told;  and  within  five  minutes  had  the 
children  moving  through  their  parts  in  perfect  dis- 
cipline, while  with  a  fire  of  cross-questions  he  shook 
Mr.  Simeon  back  to  his  senses  and  rapidly  gathered 
the  outline  of  the  play.  He  terrified  all. 

"Bardon  my  interference,  ma'am!"  he  barked, 
addressing  Miss  Champernowne.  "  I  haf  a  burbose." 

The  scene  engaging  the  children  was  that  of  the 

youthful  St.  Meriadoc's  first  school-going;   where  his 

parents  (Duke  and  Duchess  of  Brittany)  call  with 

him  upon  a  pedagogue,  who  introduces  him  to  the 

230 


MERCHESTER    PREPARES 

boys  and  girls,  his  fellow  scholars.     For  a  sample  of 
Mr.  Simeon's  version — 

PEDAGOGUE — 

"Children  look  on  your  books. 
If  there  be  any  whispering 
It  will  be  great  hindering, 
And  there  will  be  knocks." 

FIRST  SCHOLAR  (chants) — 

"God  bless  A,  B  and  C! 
The  rest  of  the  song  is  D: 

That  is  all  my  lore. 
I  came  late  yesterday, 
I  played  truant  by  my  fay! 
I  am  a  foul  sinner. 
Good  master,  after  dinner 
I  will  learn  more." 

SECOND  SCHOLAR — 

"E,  s,  t,  that  is  est, 
I  know  not  what  comes  next " 

Whilst  the  scholars  recited  thus,  St.  Meriadoc's 
father  and  mother — each  with  a  train  of  attendants 
— walked  up  and  down  between  the  ranks  "high 
and  disposedly,"  as  became  a  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Brittany. 

Mr.  Isidore  of  a  sudden  threw  all  into  confusion 
again.  He  shot  out  a  forefinger  and  screamed — yes, 
positively  screamed — 

231 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Ach!  zat  is  ze  child — ze  fourt'  from  ze  end! 
I  will  haf  her  and  no  ozzer — you  onderstandt?" 
Here  he  swung  about  upon  the  Chaplain.  "Ob-serf 
how  she  walk!  how  she  carry  her  chin!  If  I  haf  not 
her  for  ze  May  Queen  I  will  haf  non.  .  .  .  Step  vor- 
wards,  liddle  one.  Whad  is  your  name?" 

"Corona." 

Seeing  that  Mr.  Isidore's  finger  pointed  at  her,  she 
stepped  forward,  with  a  touch  of  defiance  in  her 
astonishment,  but  fearlessly.  The  touch  of  defiance 
helped  to  tilt  her  chin  at  the  angle  he  so  much  ad- 
mired. 

"Cohrona — zat  must  mean  ze  chrowned  one. 
Cabital!  .  .  .  You  are  not  afraid  of  me,  heinf" 

"No,"  answered  Corona  simply,  still  wondering 
what  he  might  mean,  but  keeping  a  steady  eye  on 
him.  Why  should  she  be  afraid  of  this  comic  little 
man. 

"So?  ...  I  engage  you.  You  are  to  be  ze  May 
Queen  in  ze  great  Merchester  Bageant.  .  .  .  But 
you  must  be  goot  and  attend  how  I  drill  you.  Ozzer- 
wise  I  dismees  you." 

It  appeared  that  Mr.  Isidore  had  spent  the  after- 
noon with  Mr.  Colt,  hunting  the  schools  of  Merchester 
in  search  of  a  child  to  suit  his  fastidious  require- 
ments. He  had  two  of  the  gifts  of  genius — unweary- 
ing patience  in  the  search,  unerring  swiftness  in  the 
choice. 

232 


MERCHESTER   PREPARES 

Mr.  Simeon,  the  rehearsal  over,  walked  home 
heavily.  On  his  way  he  paused  to  study  the  pit, 
and  look  up  from  it  to  the  threatened  mass  of  ma- 
sonry. "Not  in  my  time,  0  Lord!" 

And  yet— 

"From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 
And  sink  from  high  to  low  along  a  scale 
Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail  .  .  . 
Truth  fails  not;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 
The  longest  date  .  .  .  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 
Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 
His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 
Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air 
Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time." 

But  Corona,  breaking  away  from  her  playfellows 
and  gaining  the  road  to  St.  Hospital,  skipped  as  she 
ran  homeward,  treading  clouds  of  glory. 


233 


CHAPTER  XX 

NAUGHTINESS,   AND  A  SEQUEL 

"SHE  has  behaved  very  naughtily,"  said  Brother 
Copas. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  sighed  Brother 
Bonaday. 

"Nor  I." 

"  It 's  not  like  her,  you  see." 

"  It  was  a  most  extraordinary  outburst.  .  .  .  Either 
the  child  has  picked  up  some  bad  example  at  school, 
to  copy  it  (and  you  will  remember  I  always  doubted 
that  her  sex  gets  any  good  of  schooling) — 

"  But,"  objected  Brother  Bonaday,  "  it  was  you  who 
insisted  on  sending  her." 

"So  I  did — in  self-defence.  If  we  had  not  done 
our  best  the  State  would  have  done  its  worst,  and 
put  her  into  an  institution  where  one  underpaid 
female  grapples  with  sixty  children  in  a  class,  and 
talks  all  the  time.  Now  we  didn't  want  Corona  to 
acquire  the  habit  of  talking  all  the  time."  Here 
Brother  Copas  dropped  a  widower's  sigh.  "In  fact, 
it  has  hitherto  been  no  small  part  of  her  charm  that 
she  seldom  or  never  spoke  out  of  her  turn." 

"It  has  been  a  comfort  to  have  her  company," 
234 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

put  in  Brother  Bonaday,  eager  to  say  a  good  word 
for  the  culprit. 

"  She  spoke  out  of  her  turn  just  now,"  said  Brother 
Copas  sternly.  "Her  behaviour  to  Nurse  Turner 
was  quite  atrocious.  .  .  .  Now  either  she  has  picked 
this  up  at  school,  or — the  thought  occurs  to  me — she 
has  been  loafing  around  the  laundry,  gossiping  with 
the  like  of  Mrs.  Royle  and  Mrs.  Clerihew,  and  letting 
their  evil  communications  corrupt  her  good  manners. 
This  seems  to  me  the  better  guess,  because  the  women 
in  the  laundry  are  always  at  feud  with  the  nurses;  it 's 
endemic  there:  and  'a  nasty  two-faced  spy'  smacks, 
though  faintly,  of  the  wash-tub.  In  my  hearing 
Mrs.  Clerihew  has  accused  Nurse  Branscome  of 
'carrying  tales.'  'A  nasty  two-faced  spy' — the  child 
was  using  those  very  worlds  when  we  surprised  her, 
and  the  Lord  knows  what  worse  before  we  happened 
on  the  scene." 

"Nurse  Turner  would  not  tell,  and  so  we  have  no 
right  to  speculate." 

"  That 's  true.  ...  I  '11  confine  myself  to  what 
we  overheard.  Now  when  a  chit  of  a  child  stands  up 
and  hurls  abuse  of  that  kind  at  a  woman  well  old 
enough  to  be  her  mother,  two  things  have  to  be  done. 
.  .  .  We  must  get  at  the  root  of  this  deterioration  in 
Corona,  but  first  of  all  she  must  be  punished.  The 
question  is,  Which  of  us  will  undertake  it?  You 

have  the  natural  right,  of  course " 

235 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Brother  Bonaday  winced. 

"No,  no "  he  protested. 

"  I  should  have  said,  the  natural  obligation.  But 
you  are  frail  just  now,  and  I  doubt  if  you  are  equal 
to  it." 

"Copas!  .  .  .  You  're  not  proposing  to  whip  her?" 

Brother  Copas  chuckled  grimly.  But  that  the 
child  was  in  the  next  room,  possibly  listening,  he 
might  have  laughed  aloud. 

"Do  they  whip  girls?"  he  asked.  "I  used  to 
find  the  whipping  of  boys  disgusting  enough.  .  .  . 
I  had  an  assistant  master  once,  a  treasure,  who  re- 
mained with  me  six  years,  and  then  left  for  no  reason 
but  that  I  could  not  continue  to  pay  him.  I  liked 
him  so  much  that  one  day,  after  flogging  a  boy  in  hot 
blood,  and  while  (as  usual)  feeling  sick  with  the  re- 
vulsion of  it,  I  then  and  there  resolved  that,  however 
much  this  trade  might  degrade  me,  this  Mr.  Simcox 
should  be  spared  the  degradation  whilst  in  my  em- 
ploy. I  went  to  his  class-room  and  asked  to  have  a 
look  at  his  punishment-book.  He  answered  that  he 
kept  none.  '  But,'  said  I,  *  when  you  first  came  to 
me  didn't  I  give  you  a  book,  and  expressly  command 
you,  whenever  you  punished  a  boy,  to  write  an  entry, 
giving  the  boy's  name,  the  nature  of  his  offence,  and 
the  number  of  strokes  with  which  you  punished  him?' 
'You  did,  sir,'  said  Simcox,  'and  I  have  lost  it.' 
'Lost  it!'  said  I.  'You  but  confirm  me  in  my  de- 
236 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

cision  that  henceforth,  when  any  boy  in  this  school 
needs  caning,  I  will  do  it  with  my  own  hands.'  '  Sir/ 
he  replied,  'you  have  done  that  for  these  five  years. 
Forgive  me,  but  I  was  pleased  to  find  that  you  never 
asked  to  see  the  book;  for  I  really  couldn't  bring 
myself  to  flog  a  boy  merely  for  the  sake  of  writing  up 
an  entry/  In  short,  that  man  was  a  born  school- 
master, and  almost  dispensed  with  punishments,  even 
the  slightest." 

"He  ruled  the  boys  by  kindness,  I  suppose?" 

"  He  wasn't  quite  such  a  fool." 

"Then  what  was  his  secret?" 

"Bad  temper.  They  held  him  in  a  holy  terror; 
and  it 's  all  the  queerer  because  he  wasn't  even  just." 

Brother  Bonaday  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said;  "but  if  you  be- 
lieve so  little  in  punishment,  why  are  we  proposing 
to  punish  Corona?" 

"  Obviously,  my  dear  fellow,  because  we  can  find 
no  better  way.  The  child  must  not  be  suffered  to 
grow  up  into  a  termagant — you  will  admit  that,  I 
hope?  .  .  .  Very  well,  then:  feeble  guardians  that 
we  are,  me  must  do  our  best." 

He  knocked  at  the  bedroom  door  and,  after  a 
moment,  entered.  Corona  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed, 
dry-eyed,  hugging  Timothy  to  her  breast. 

"Corona " 

237 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Yes,  Uncle  Copas?" 

"You  have  been  extremely  naughty,  and  probably 
know  that  you  have  to  be  punished." 

"  I  dare  say  it 's  the  best  you  can  do,"  said  Corona, 
after  weighing  this  address  or  seeming  to  do  so.  The 
answer  so  exactly  tallied  with  the  words  he  had 
spoken  a  moment  ago  that  Brother  Copas  could  not 
help  exclaiming — 

"Ah!     You  overheard  us,  just  now?" 

"I  may  have  my  faults,"  said  Corona  coldly,  can- 
didly, "but  I  am  not  a  listener." 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  Brother 
Copas,  somewhat  abashed.  "But  the  fact  remains 
that  your  behaviour  to  Nurse  Turner  has  been  most 
disrespectful,  and  your  language  altogether  unbe- 
coming. You  have  given  your  father  and  me  a  great 
shock:  and  I  am  sure  you  did  not  wish  to  do  that." 

"  I  'm  miserable  enough,  if  that 's  what  you  mean," 
the  child  confessed,  still  hugging  her  golliwog  and 
staring  with  haggard  eyes  at  the  window.  "But  if 
you  want  me  to  say  that  I  'm  sorry — 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  say." 

"  Well,  then,  I  can't.  .  .  .  Nurse  Turner  's  a  beast 
— a  beast — a  BEAST!" 

Corona's  face  whitened,  and  her  voice  shrilled 
higher  at  each  repetition. 

"  — She  hates  Branny  like  poison,  and  I  hate  her . 
.  .  .  There!  And  now  you  must  take  and  pun- 
238 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

ish  me  as  much  as  you  please.  What's  it  going 
to  be?" 

She  rocked  her  small  body  as  she  looked  up  with 
straight  eyes,  awaiting  sentence. 

"You  are  to  go  to  bed  at  once,  and  without  any 
supper,"  said  Brother  Copas,  keeping  his  voice  steady 
on  the  words  he  loathed  to  utter. 

Again  Corona  seemed  to  weigh  them. 

"That  seems  fair  enough,"  she  decided.  "Are 
you  going  to  lock  me  in?" 

"That  had  not  occurred  to  me." 

"You  'd  better,"  she  advised.  "And  take  the  key 
away  in  your  pocket.  .  .  .  Is  that  all,  Uncle  Copas?" 

"That  is  all,  Corona.  But  as  for  taking  the  key, 
you  know  that  I  would  far  sooner  trust  to  your  hon- 
our." 

"You  can  trust  to  that,  right  enough,"  said  she, 
getting  off  the  edge  of  the  bed.  "I  was  thinking  of 
Daddy.  .  .  .  Good  night,  Uncle  Copas ! — if  you  don't 
mind,  I  am  going  to  undress." 

Brother  Copas  withdrew.  He  shut  and  locked  the 
door  firmly,  and  made  a  pretence,  by  rattling  the 
key,  of  withdrawing  it  from  the  lock.  But  his  nerve 
failed  him,  and  he  could  not  actually  withdraw  it. 
"Suppose  the  child  should  be  taken  ill  in  the  night: 
or  suppose  that  her  nerve  breaks  down,  and  she  cries 
for  her  father.  ...  It  might  kill  him  if  he  could 
not  open  the  door  instantly.  Or,  again,  supposing 
239 


BROTHER  COPAS 

that  she  holds  out  until  he  has  undressed  and  gone 
to  bed  ?  He  will  start  up  at  the  first  sound  and  rush 
across  the  open  quadrangle — Lord  knows  if  he  would 
wait  to  put  on  his  dressing-gown — to  get  the  key 
from  me.  In  his  state  of  health,  and  with  these 
autumn  nights  falling  chilly,  he  would  take  his 
death." 

So  Brother  Copas  contented  himself  with  turning 
the  key  in  the  wards  and  pointing  to  it. 

"  She  is  going  to  bed,"  he  whispered.  "  Supperless, 
you  understand.  .  .  .  We  must  show  ourselves  stern: 
it  will  be  the  better  for  her  in  the  end,  and  some  day 
she  will  thank  us." 

Brother  Bonaday  eyed  the  door  sadly. 

"To  be  sure,  we  must  be  stern,"  he  echoed.  As 
for  being  thanked  for  this  severity,  it  crossed  his 
mind  that  the  thanks  must  come  quickly,  or  he  would 
probably  miss  them.  But  he  muttered  again,  "To 
be  sure — to  be  sure!"  as  Brother  Copas  tiptoed 
away  and  left  him. 

On  his  way  back  to  his  lonely  rooms,  Brother  Copas 
met  and  exchanged  "Good  evenings"  with  Nurse 
Branscome. 

"You  are  looking  grave,"  she  said. 

"You  might  better  say  I  am  looking  like  a  humbug 
and  a  fool.  I  have  just  been  punishing  that  child — 
sending  her  to  bed  supperless.  Now  call  me  the  ass 
that  I  am." 

240 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

"Why,  what  has  Corona  been  doing?" 

"Does  it  matter?"  he  snarled,  turning  away. 
"She  has  been  naughty;  and  the  only  way  with 
naughty  children  is  to  be  brutal." 

"  I  expect  you  have  made  a  mess  of  it,"  said  Nurse 
Branscome. 

"I  am  sure  I  have,"  said  Brother  Copas. 

Corona  undressed  herself  very  deliberately;  and, 
seating  herself  again  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  as  de- 
liberately undressed  Timothy  and  clothed  him  for 
the  night  in  his  pajamas. 

"I  am  sorry,  dear,  that  you  should  suffer.  .  .  . 
But  I  can't  tell  what  isn't  true,  not  even  for  your 
sake;  and  I  can't  take  back  what  I  said.  Nurse 
Turner  is  a  beast,  if  we  starve  for  saying  it — which," 
added  Corona  reflectively,  "I  don't  suppose  we  shall. 
I  couldn't  answer  back  properly  on  Uncle  Copas, 
because  when  you  say  a  thing  to  grown-ups  they  look 
wise  and  ask  you  to  prove  it,  and  if  you  can't 
you  look  silly.  But  Nurse  Turner  is  a  beast.  .  .  . 
Tinny!  let's  lie  down  and  try  to  get  to  sleep.  But 
Oh,  it  is  miserable  to  have  all  the  world  against 
us." 

She  remembered  that  she  was  omitting  to  say  her 
prayers,  and  knelt  down;  but  after  a  moment  or  two 
rose  again. 

"  It 's  no  use,  God,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  very  sorry, 
241 


BROTHER  COPAS 

and  I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  anyone  but  You — and  per- 
haps Uncle  Copas,  if  he  was  different:  but  I  can't 
say  'forgive  us  our  trespasses'  when  I  can't  abide 
the  woman." 

She  had  already  pulled  down  the  blind.  Before 
creeping  to  bed  she  drew  the  curtains  to  exclude  the 
lingering  daylight.  As  she  did  so,  she  made  sure  that 
her  window  was  hasped  wide.  Her  bedroom  (on  the 
ground  floor)  looked  out  upon  a  small  cabbage-plot 
in  which  Brother  Bonaday,  until  warned  by  the 
doctor,  had  employed  his  leisure.  It  was  a  wilder- 
ness now. 

As  a  rule  Corona  slept  with  her  lattice  wide  to  the 
fullest  extent:  and  at  any  time  (upon  an  alarm  of 
fire,  for  example)  she  could  have  slipped  her  small 
body  out  through  the  opening  with  ease.  To-night 
she  drew  the  frame  of  the  window  closer  than  usual, 
and  pinned  it  on  the  perforated  bar;  so  close  that 
her  small  body  could  not  squeeze  through  it  even  if 
she  should  walk  in  her  sleep.  She  was  a  conscientious 
child.  She  only  forbore  to  close  it  tight  because  it 
was  wicked  to  go  without  fresh  air. 

She  stole  into  bed  and  curled  herself  up  comfort- 
ably. For  some  reason  or  other  the  touch  of  the  cold 
pillow  drew  a  tear  or  two.  But  after  a  very  little 
while  she  slept,  still  hugging  her  doll. 

There  was  no  sound  to  disturb  her;  no  sound  but 
the  soft  dripping,  now  and  again,  of  a  cinder  in  the 
242 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

grate  before  which  Brother  Bonaday  sat,  with  misery 
in  his  heart. 

"Corona!" 

The  voice  was  low  and  tremulous.  It  followed  on 
the  sound  of  a  loud  sneeze.  Either  the  voice  or  the 
sneeze  (or  both)  aroused  her,  and  she  sat  up  in  bed 
with  a  start.  Like  Chaucer's  Canace,  of  sleep 

"She  was  full  mesurable,  as  women  be." 

"Corona!" 

"Is  that  you,  Daddy?"  she  asked,  jumping  out 
of  bed  and  tip-toeing  to  the  door. 

What  the  hour  was  she  could  not  tell:  but  she 
knew  it  must  be  late,  for  a  shaft  of  moonlight  fell 
through  a  gap  in  the  window-curtains  and  shone  along 
the  floor. 

"Are  you  ill?  ...  Shall  I  run  and  call  them  up  at 
the  Nunnery?" 

"I  was  listening.  ...  I  have  been  listening  here 
for  some  time,  and  I  could  not  hear  you  breathing." 

"  Dear  Daddy  ...  is  that  all  ?  Go  back  to  your 
bed — it 's  wicked  of  you  to  be  out  of  it,  with  the 
nights  turning  chilly  as  they  are.  I  '11  go  back  to 
mine  and  try  to  snore,  if  that 's  any  comfort." 

"I  haven't  been  to  bed  at  all.  I  couldn't.  .  .  . 
Corona!" 

"You  are  not  to  turn  the  key!"  she  commanded 
243 


BROTHER  COPAS 

in  a  whisper,  for  he  was  fumbling  with  it.  "  Uncle 
Copas  pretended  he  was  taking  it  away  with  him: 
or  that  was  what  I  understood,  and  if  he  breaks  an 
understanding  it 's  his  affair." 

"I — I  thought,  dear  you  might  be  hungry." 

"Well,  and  suppose  I  am?" 

Corona,  now  she  came  to  think  of  it,  was  ravenous. 

"I've  a  slice  of  bread  here,  and  a  cold  sausage. 
If  you  '11  wrap  yourself  up  and  come  out,  we  can 
toast  them  both:  the  fire  is  still  clear." 

"As  if  I  should  think  of  it!  .  .  .  And  it 's  lucky 
for  you,  Daddy,  the  key  's  on  your  side  of  the  door. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  out  of  bed  at — 
what  is  the  time?" 

"Past  ten  o'clock." 

"You  are  not  telling  me  a  fib,  I  hope,  about  keep- 
ing up  a  clear  fire?"  said  Corona  sternly. 

"If  you  like,  I  will  open  the  door  just  a  little:  then 
you  can  see  for  yourself." 

"  Cer — tainly  not.  But  if  you  've  been  looking 
after  yourself  properly,  why  did  you  sneeze  just  now?" 

"  'Sneeze?'     I  never  sneezed." 

Silence  for  a  moment. 

"Somebody  sneezed  ...  I  'stinctly  heard  it," 
Corona  insisted.  "Now  I  come  to  think,  it  sound- 
ed  " 

There  was  another  pause  while,  with  a  question  in 
her  eye,  she  turned  and  stared  at  the  casement.  Then, 
244 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

as  surmise  grew  to  certainty,  a  little  laugh  bubbled 
within  her.     She  stepped  to  the  window. 

"Good  night,  Uncle  Copas!"  she  called  out  mis- 
chievously. 

No  one  answered  from  the  moonlit  cabbage-plot. 
In  fact,  Brother  Copas,  beating  his  retreat,  at  that 
moment  struck  his  staff  against  a  disused  watering- 
can,  and  missed  to  hear  her. 

He  objurgated  his  clumsiness  and  went  on,  picking 
his  way  more  cautiously. 

"  The  question  is,"  he  murmured,  "  how  I  'm  to 
extort  confession  from  Bonaday  to-morrow  without 
letting  him  suspect.  ..." 

While  he  pondered  this,  Brother  Copas  stumbled 
straight  upon  another  shock.  The  small  gate  of  the 
cabbage-plot  creaked  on  its  hinge  .  .  .  and  behold, 
in  the  pathway  ahead  stood  a  woman!  In  the  moon- 
light he  recognised  her. 

"Nurse  Branscome!" 

"Brother  Copas!  .  .  .  Why,  what  in  the  world 
are  you  doing  —  at  this  hour — and  here,  of  all 
places." 

"Upon  my  word,"  retorted  Copas,  "I  might  ask 
you  the  same  question.  .  .  .  But  on  second  thoughts 
I  prefer  to  lie  boldly  and  confess  that  I  have  been  steal- 
ing cabbages." 

"Is  that  a  cabbage  you  are  hiding  under  your 
gown  ?  " 

245 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"It  might  be,  if  this  place  hadn't  been  destitute  of 
cabbages  these  twelve  months  and  more.  .  .  .  Par- 
don my  curiosity:  but  is  that  also  a  cabbage  you  are 
hiding  under  your  cloak?" 

"It  might  be —  But  here  laughter — quiet 

laughter — got  the  better  of  them  both. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  said  Brother  Copas,  re- 
covering himself.  "Her  father  is  outside  her  door 
abjectly  beseeching  her  to  be  as  naughty  as  she  pleases, 
if  only  she  won't  be  unhappy.  And  she — woman- 
like— is  using  her  advantage  to  nag  him. 

"'But  if  ne'er  so  fast  you  wall  her — ' 

Danae,  immured,  yet  charged  a  lover  for  admission. 
Corona,  imprisoned,  takes  it  out  of  her  father  for 
speaking  through  the  keyhole." 

"You  would  not  tell  me  what  the  child  did,  that 
you  two  have  punished  her." 

"Would  I  not?  Well,  she  was  abominably  rude 
to  Nurse  Turner  this  afternoon — went  to  the  extent 
of  calling  her  'a  nasty  two-faced  spy.'" 

"Was  that  all?"  asked  Nurse  Branscome. 

"It  was  enough,  surely?  ...  As  a  matter 'of  fact 
she  went  further,  even  dragging  your  name  into  the 
fray.  She  excused  herself  by  saying  that  she  had  a 
right  to  hate  Nurse  Turner  because  Nurse  Turner 
hated  you." 

246 


NAUGHTINESS,  AND  A  SEQUEL 

"  Well,  that  at  any  rate  was  true  enough." 

"Hey?" 

"  I  mean,  it  is  true  enough  that  Nurse  Turner  hates 
me,  and  would  like  to  get  me  out  of  St.  Hospital," 
said  Nurse  Branscome  quietly. 

"You  never  told  me  of  this." 

"Why  should  I  have  troubled  to  tell?  I  only  tell 
it  now  because  the  child  has  guessed  it." 

Brother  Copas  leaned  on  his  staff  pondering  a  sud- 
den suspicion. 

"Look  here,"   he  said;    "those  anonymous   let- 

"I  have  not,"  said  Nurse  Branscome,  "a  doubt 
that  Nurse  Turner  wrote  them." 

"You  have  never  so  much  as  hinted  at  this." 

"I  had  no  right.  I  have  no  right,  even  now;  hav- 
ing no  evidence.  You  would  not  show  me  the  letter, 
remember." 

"  It  was  too  vile." 

"As  if  I — a  nurse — cannot  look  at  a  thing  because 
it  is  vile!  ...  I  supposed  that  you  had  laid  the  mat- 
ter aside  and  forgotten  it." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  at  some  pains — 
hitherto  idle — to  discover  the  writer.  .  .  .  Does  Nurse 
Turner,  by  the  way,  happen  to  start  her  W's  with  a 
small  curly  flourish?" 

"  That  you  can  discover  for  yourself.  The  Nurses' 
Diary  lies  in  the  Nunnery,  in  the  outer  office.  We 
247 


BROTHER  COPAS 

both  enter  up  our  'cases'  in  it,  and  it  is  open  for  any- 
one to  inspect." 

"  I  will  inspect  it  to-morrow,"  promised  Brother  Co- 
pas.  "  Now — this  Hospital  being  full  of  evil  tongues 
— I  cannot  well  ask  you  to  eat  an  al  fresco  supper  with 
me,  though  " — he  twinkled — "  I  suspect  we  both  carry 
the  constituents  of  a  frugal  one  under  our  cloaks." 

They  passed  through  an  archway  into  the  great 
quadrangle,  and  there,  having  wished  one  another 
good  night,  went  their  ways;  she  mirthfully,  he  mirth- 
fully and  thoughtfully  too. 

Next  morning  Brother  Copas  visited  the  outer  office 
of  the  Nunnery  and  carefully  inspected  the  Nurses' 
Diary.  Since  every  week  contains  a  Wednesday, 
there  were  capital  Ws  in  plenty. 

He  took  tracings  of  half  a  dozen  and,  armed  with 
these,  sought  Nurse  Turner  in  her  private  room. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  holding  out  the  anonymous  letter, 
"you  may  have  some  light  to  throw  on  this.  I  have 
the  Master's  authority  to  bid  you  attend  on  him  and 
explain  it." 

He  fixed  the  hour — 2  p.m.  But  shortly  after  mid- 
day Nurse  Turner  had  taken  a  cab  (ordered  by  tele- 
phone) and  was  on  her  way  to  the  railway  station  with 
her  boxes. 


248 


CHAPTER   XXI 

RECONCILIATION 

"I  AM  not,"  said  the  Bishop,  "putting  this  before 
you  as  an  argument.  I  have  lived  and  mixed  with 
men  long  enough  to  know  that  they  are  usually  per- 
suaded by  other  things  than  argument,  sometimes  by 
better.  ...  I  am  merely  suggesting  a  modus  Vivendi 
— shall  we  call  it  a  truce  of  God? — until  we  have  all 
done  our  best  against  a  common  peril:  for,  as  your 
Petition  proves  you  to  be  earnest  Churchmen,  so  I 
may  conclude  that  to  all  of  us  in  this  room  our  Cathe- 
dral stands  for  a  cherished  monument  of  the  Church, 
however  differently  we  may  interpret  its  history." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  his  gaze  travelling 
from  one  to  another  with  a  winning  smile.  All  the 
petitioners  were  gathered  before  him  in  the  Master's 
library.  They  stood  respectfully,  each  with  his  hat 
and  staff.  At  first  sight  you  might  have  thought  he 
was  dismissing  them  on  a  pilgrimage. 

Master  Blanchminster  sat  on  the  Bishop's  right, 
with  Mr.  Colt  close  behind  him;  Mr.  Simeon  at  the 
end  of  the  table,  taking  down  a  verbatim  report  in 
his  best  shorthand. 

249 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  pursued  the  Bishop,  "  I  come 
rather  to  appeal  for  concord  than  to  discuss  principles 
of  observance.  If  you  compel  me  to  pronounce  on 
the  points  raised,  I  will  take  evidence  and  endeavour 
to  deal  justly  upon  it:  but  I  suggest  to  you  that  the 
happiness  of  such  a  Society  as  this  is  better  furthered 
by  a  spirit  of  sweet  reasonableness  than  by  any  man's 
insistence  on  his  just  rights/ 

"  Fiat  coelum  ruat  justitia,"  muttered  Brother  Copas. 
"But  the  man  is  right  nevertheless." 

"Principles,"  said  the  Bishop,  "are  hard  to  dis- 
cuss, justice  often  impossible  to  deal.  .  .  .  'Yes,'  you 
may  answer,  '  but  we  are  met  to  do  this,  or  endeavour 
to  do  it,  and  not  to  indulge  in  irrelevancy.'  Yet  is  my 
plea  so  irrelevant?  .  .  .  You  are  at  loggerheads  over 
certain  articles  of  faith  and  discipline,  when  a  sound 
arrests  you  in  the  midst  of  your  controversy.  You 
look  up  and  perceive  that  your  Cathedral  totters;  that 
it  was  her  voice  you  heard  appealing  to  you.  'Leave 
your  antagonisms  and  help  one  another  to  shore  me  up 
— me  the  witness  of  past  generations  to  the  Faith. 
Generations  to  come  will  settle  some  of  the  questions 
that  vex  you;  others,  maybe,  the  mere  process  of  time 
will  silently  resolve.  But  time,  which  helps  Them, 
is  fast  destroying  us.  You  are  not  young,  and  my 
necessity  is  urgent.  Surely,  my  children,  you  will 
be  helping  the  Faith  if  you  save  its  ancient  walls.'  I 
bethink  me,"  the  Bishop  went  on,  "  that  we  may  ap- 
250 


RECONCILIATION 

ply  to  Merchester  that  fine  passage  of  Matthew 
Arnold's  on  Oxford  and  her  towers:  'Apparitions  of 
a  day,  what  is  our  puny  warfare  against  the  Philistines 
compared  with  the  warfare  which  this  queen  of  romance 
has  been  waging  against  them  for  centuries,  and  will 
wage  after  we  are  gone?'"  He  paused,  and  on  an 
afterthought  succumbed  to  the  professional  trick  of 
improving  the  occasion.  "It  may  even  be  that  the 
plight  of  our  Cathedral  contains  a  special  lesson  for  us 
of  St.  Hospital:  '//  house  be  divided  against  itself, 
that  house  cannot  stand'" 

"Tilly  vally!"  muttered  Brother  Copas,  and  was 
feeling  for  his  snuff-box,  but  recollected  himself  in 
time. 

"You  may  say  that  you  are  old  men,  poor  men; 
that  it  is  little  you  could  help.  Do  not  be  so  sure  of 
this.  I  am  informed,  for  instance,  that  the  proceeds 
of  our  forthcoming  Pageant  are  to  be  devoted  to  the 
Restoration  Fund,  and  not  (as  was  originally  intended) 
to  missionary  purposes." 

Here  Mr.  Simeon,  bending  over  his  shorthand 
notes,  blushed  to  the  ears.  It  was  he,  good  man,  who 
had  first  thought  of  this,  and  suggested  it  to  Mr.  Colt; 
as  it  was  Mr.  Colt  who  had  suggested  it  to  the  Com- 
mittee in  the  presence  of  reporters,  and  who,  on  its 
acceptance,  had  received  the  Committee's  thanks. 

"I  am  further  told" — here  the  Bishop  glanced 
around  and  caught  the  eye  of  the  Chaplain,  who  in- 
251 


BROTHER  COPAS 

clined  his  head  respectfully — "  that  a — er — representa- 
tion of  the  Foundation  Ceremony  of  St.  Hospital  may 
be  included  among  the — er ' 

"Episodes,"  murmured  Mr.  Colt,  prompting. 

"  Eh  ? — yes,  precisely — among  the  Episodes.  I  feel 
sure  it  would  make  a  tableau  at  once  impressive  and — 
er — entertaining — in  the  best  sense  of  the  word.  .  .  . 
So,  you  see,  there  are  possibilities;  but  they  presup- 
pose your  willingness  to  sink  some  differences  and  join 
heartily  in  a  common  cause.  .  .  .  Or  again,  you  may 
urge  that  to  re-edify  our  Cathedral  is  none  of  your 
business — as  officially  indeed  it  is  none  of  mine,  but 
concerns  the  Dean  and  Chapter.  I  put  it  to  you  that 
it  concerns  us  all."  Here  the  Bishop  leaned  back  in 
his  chair,  on  the  arms  of  which  he  rested  his  elbows; 
and  pressing  his  finger-tips  together,  gazed  over  them 
at  his  audience.  "That,  at  any  rate,  is  my  plea;  and 
I  shall  be  glad,  if  you  have  a  spokesman,  to  hear  how 
the  suggestion  of  a  'truce  of  God'  presents  itself  to 
your  minds." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  Brother  Copas  felt 
himself  nudged  from  behind.  He  cleared  his  throat 
and  inclined  himself  with  a  grave  bow. 

"My  lord,"  he  said,  "my  fellow-petitioners  here 
have  asked  me  to  speak  first  to  any  points  that  may  be 
raised.  I  have  stipulated,  however,  that  they  hold 
themselves  free  to  disavow  me  here  in  your  lordship's 
presence,  if  on  any  point  I  misrepresent  them." 
252 


RECONCILIATION 

The  Bishop  nodded  encouragingly. 

"Well  then,  my  lord,  it  is  peculiarly  hard  to  speak 
for  them  when  at  the  outset  of  the  inquiry  you  meet  us 
with  a  wholly  unexpected  appeal  ...  an  appeal  (shall 
I  say?)  to  sentiment  rather  than  to  strict  reason." 

"  I  admit  that." 

"As  I  admit  the  appeal  to  be  a  strong  one.  .  .  . 
But  before  I  try  to  answer  it,  may  I  deal  with  a  sen- 
tence or  two  which  (pardon  me)  seemed  less  relevant 
than  the  rest  ?  ...  If  a  home  be  divided  against  itself, 
that  house  cannot  stand.  True  enough,  my  lord:  but 
neither  can  it  aspire." 

The  Bishop  lifted  his  eyebrows.  But  before  he 
could  interpose  a  word  Brother  Copas  had  mounted 
a  hobby  and  was  riding  it,  whip  and  spur. 

"My  lord,  when  a  Hellene  built  a  temple  he  took 
two  pillars,  set  them  upright  in  the  ground,  and  laid 
a  third  block  of  stone  a-top  of  them.  He  might  re- 
peat this  operation  a  few  times  or  a  many,  according  to 
the  size  at  which  he  wished  to  build.  He  might  carve 
his  pillars,  and  flourish  them  off  with  acanthus  capitals, 
and  run  friezes  along  his  architraves:  but  always  in 
these  three  stones,  the  two  uprights  and  the  beam,  the 
trick  of  it  resided.  And  his  building  lasted.  The 
pillars  stood  firm  in  solid  ground,  into  which  the  weight 
of  the  cross-beam  pressed  them  yet  more  firmly.  The 
whole  structure  was  there  to  endure,  if  not  for  ever,  at 
least  until  some  ass  of  a  fellow  came  along  and  kicked 
253 


BROTHER  COPAS 

it  down  to  spite  an  old  religion,  because  he  had  found 
a  new  one.  .  .  .  But  this  Gothic — this  Cathedral,  for 
example,  which  it  seems  we  must  help  to  preserve — is 
fashioned  only  to  kick  itself  down." 

"It  aspires." 

"Precisely,  my  lord;  that  is  the  mischief.  When 
the  Greek  temple  was  content  to  repose  upon  natural 
law — when  the  Greek  builder  said,  'I  will  build  for 
my  gods  greatly  yet  lowlily,  measuring  my  effort  to 
those  powers  of  man  which  at  their  fullest  I  know  to 
be  moderate,  making  my  work  harmonious  with  what 
little  it  is  permitted  to  me  to  know' — in  jumps  the 
rash  Christian,  saying  with  the  men  of  Babel,  Go  to, 
let  us  build  us  a  city  and  a  tower  whose  top  may  reach 
unto  heaven;  or,  in  other  words,  'Let  us  soar  above 
the  law  of  earth  and  take  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  by 
storm.'  .  .  .  With  what  result  ? 

"'Sed  quid  Typhoeus  et  validus  Mimas 
Contra    sonantem    Palladia    aegida  .  .  .?' 

The  Gothic  builders,  like  the  Titans,  might  strain  to 
pile  Pelion  on  Olympus.  Vis  consili  expers,  my  lord. 
From  the  moment  they  take  down  their  scaffording — 
nay,  while  it  is  yet  standing — the  dissolution  begins. 
All  their  complicated  structure  of  weights,  counter- 
weights, thrusts,  balances,  has  started  an  internecine 
conflict,  stone  warring  against  stone,  the  whole  disin- 
tegrating  " 

254 


RECONCILIATION 

"Excuse  me,  Brother — 

"  Copas,  my  lord." 

"  Excuse  me,  Brother  Copas,"  said  the  Bishop  with 
a  smile,  "if  I  do  not  quite  see  to  what  practical  con- 
clusion we  are  tending." 

"There  is  a  moral  ahead,  my  lord.  *.  .  .  Thanks 
to  Mr.  Colt's  zeal,  we  have  all  begun  to  aspire  along 
our  different  lines,  with  the  result  that  St.  Hospital 
has  become  a  house  divided  against  itself.  Now, 
if  I  may  say  it  modestly,  I  think  your  lordship's  sug- 
gestion an  excellent  one.  We  are  old  poor  men — what 
business  have  we,  any  longer,  with  aspiration  ?  It  is 
time  for  us  to  cease  from  pushing  and  thrusting  at 
each  other's  souls;  time  for  us  to  imitate  the  Greek 
beam,  and  practice  lying  flat.  ...  I  vote  for  the  truce, 
my  lord;  and  when  the  time  comes,  shall  vote  for  ex- 
tending it." 

"You  have  so  odd  a  way  of  putting  it,  Brother — 
er — Copas,"  his  lordship  mildly  expostulated,  "that 
I  hardly  recognise  as  mine  the  suggestion  you  are  good 
enough  to  commend." 

Brother  Copas's  eye  twinkled. 

"Ah,  my  lord!  It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  my 
life  to  follow  Socrates  humbly  as  a  midwife  of  men's 
ideas,  and  be  accused  of  handing  them  back  as 
changelings." 

"You  consent  to  the  truce,  at  any  rate?" 

"No,  no!"  muttered  old  Warboise. 
255 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Copas  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"I  vote  for  the  truce,"  he  said  firmly,  "provided 
the  one  condition  be  understood.  It  is  the  status  quo 
ante  so  far  as  concerns  us  Protestants,  and  covers  the 
whole  field.  For  example,  at  the  Sacrament  we  receive 
the  elements  in  the  form  which  life-long  use  has  con- 
secrated for  us,  allowing  the  wafter  to  be  given  to  those 
Brethren  who  prefer  it.  Will  the  Master  consent  to 
this?" 

Master  Blanchminster  was  about  to  answer,  but 
first  (it  was  somewhat  pitiful  to  see)  turned  to  Mr. 
Colt.  Mr.  Colt  bent  his  head  in  assent. 

"  That  is  granted,"  said  the  Master. 

"  Nor  would  we  deny  the  use  of  Confession  to  those 
who  find  solace  in  it — 

"Yes,  we  would,"  growled  Brother  Warboise. 

"  — provided  always,"  pursued  Copas,  "  that  its 
use  be  not  thrust  upon  us,  nor  our  avoidance  of  it  in- 
juriously reckoned  against  us." 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Master,  "  Brother  Copas  knows 
that  on  this  point  he  may  count  upon  an  honourable 
understanding." 

"  I  do,  Master.  .  .  .  Then  there  is  this  new  business 
of  compulsory  vespers  at  six  o'clock.  We  wish  that 
compulsion  removed." 

"Why?  "snapped  Mr.  Colt. 

"  You  would  force  me  to  say,  sir,  '  Because  it  inter- 
feres with  my  fishing.'  Well,  even  so,  I  might  con- 
256 


RECONCILIATION 

fess  without  shame,  and  answer  with  Walton,  that 
when  I  would  beget  content  and  increase  confidence 
in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty 
God  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  Mere, '  and  there  con- 
template the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those  very 
many  other  various  little  living  creatures  that  are  not 
only  created  but  fed  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  good- 
ness of  the  God  of  nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him/ 
.  .  .  But  I  am  speaking  here  rather  on  behalf  of 
Brother  Warboise — if  he  will  leave  off  nudging  me  in 
the  small  of  the  back.  It  happens  that  for  a  number 
of  years  Brother  Warboise  has  daily,  at  this  hour,  paid 
a  visit  to  a  sick  and  paralysed  friend " 

"  He  is  not  a  friend,"  rasped  out  Brother  Warboise. 
"On  the  contrary " 

"Shall  we,"  interposed  the  Master,  "agree  to  retain 
the  service  on  the  understanding  that  I  am  willing  to 
hear  any  reasonable  plea  for  non-attendance  ?  I  need 
hardly  say,  my  lord,  that  visiting  the  sick  would  rank 
with  me  before  any  formal  observance;  and,"  he 
added,  with  the  hint  of  a  smile  which  Brother  Copas 
caught,  "even  to  less  Christian  excuses  I  might  con- 
ceivably be  willing  to  listen." 

So,  piece  by  piece,  the  truce  was  built  up.  .  .  . 

When  the  petitioners  had  thanked  his  lordship  and 

withdrawn,  and  Mr.  Simeon,  having  gathered  up  his 

notes,  presently  followed  them  out,  the  Bishop,  the 

257 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Master,  and  the  Chaplain  sat  for  half  an  hour  talking 
together. 

The  time  came  for  Mr.  Colt  to  take  his  leave,  being 
due  at  a  Pageant  rehearsal.  When  he  was  gone  the 
Bishop  suggested  a  quiet  stroll  in  the  home-park,  and 
the  two  old  divines  fared  forth  to  take  the  benediction 
of  evening,  still  keeping  good  grave  converse  as  they 
paced  side  by  side. 

"My  dear  Eustace,"  said  the  Bishop  (they  were 
friends  of  long  standing,  and  in  private  used  Christian 
names  in  place  of  titles),  "  confess,  now  that  this  busi- 
ness is  over,  it  was  not  so  bad  as  you  feared." 

The  Master  respired  the  cool  air  with  a  quiet  sigh. 
"No,  Walter,  it  was  not  so  bad  as  I  feared.  But  hav- 
ing ruled  all  these  years  without  question,  you  under- 
stand  " 

"You  have  certainly  not  ruled  all  these  years  for 
nothing.  They  were  honest  fellows,  and  made  it 
pretty  plain  that  they  loved  you.  It  does  not  rankle, 
I  hope?" 

"No."  Master  Blanchminster  drew  another  deep 
breath  and  emitted  it  as  if  expelling  the  last  cloudy 
thought  of  resentment.  "No,"  he  repeated;  "I  be- 
lieve I  may  say  that  it  rankles  no  longer.  They  are 
honest  fellows — I  am  glad  you  perceived  that." 

"One  could  read  it  in  all  of  them,  saving  perhaps 
that  odd  fellow  who  acted  as  spokesman.  Brother — 
er — Copas?  .  .  .  He  lectured  me  straightly  enough, 
258 


RECONCILIATION 

but  there  is  always  a  disposition  to  suspect  an  ec- 
centric." 

"  He  was  probably  the  honestest  man  in  the  room," 
answered  Master  Blanchminster  with  some  positive- 
ness. 

"  I  am  the  more  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Bishop, 
"because  meeting  a  man  of  such  patent  capacity 
brought  so  low " 

"I  assure  you,  he  doesn't  even  drink — or  not  to 
excess,"  the  Master  assured  him. 

They  were  passing  under  the  archway  of  the  Porter's 
Lodge. 

"But  hallo!"  said  the  Bishop,  as  they  emerged 
upon  the  great  quadrangle,  "what  in  the  world  is 
going  on  yonder?" 

Again,  as  the  Master  had  viewed  it  many  hundreds 
of  times,  the  sunset  shed  its  gold  across  the  well-kept 
turf  between  long  shadows  cast  by  the  chimneys  of 
the  Brethren's  lodgings.  As  usual,  in  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  western  front  were  gathered  groups  of  inmates 
for  the  evening  chat.  But  the  groups  had  drawn  to- 
gether into  one,  and  were  watching  a  child  who,  soli- 
tary upon  the  grass-plot,  paced  through  a  measure 
before  them  "high  and  disposedly." 

"Brayvo!"  shrilled  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Royle,  cham- 
pion among  viragoes.  "Now,  at  the  turn  you  come 
forward  and  catch  your  skirts  back  before  you  curt- 
chey!" 

259 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"But  what  on  earth  does  it  all  mean?"  asked  the 
Bishop,  staring  across  from  the  archway. 

"  It's — it's  Bonaday's  child — he's  one  of  our  Breth- 
ren: as  I  suppose,  rehearsing  her  part  for  the  Pageant." 

Corona's  audience  had  no  eyes  but  for  the  perform- 
ance. As  she  advanced  to  the  edge  of  the  grass-plot 
and  dropped  a  final  curtsey  to  them,  their  hands  beat 
together.  The  clapping  travelled  across  the  dusk  of 
the  quadrangle  to  the  two  watchers,  and  reached  them 
faintly,  thinly,  as  though  they  listened  in  wonder  at 
ghosts  applauding  on  the  far  edge  of  Elysian  fields. 


260 


CHAPTER   XXII 

MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

"I  WON'T  say  you  sold  the  pass,"  snarled  Brother 
Warboise,  "  though  I  might.  The  fact  is,  there 's 
no  trusting  your  cleverness.  You  see  a  chance  of 
showing-off  before  the  Bishop,  and  that's  enough: 
off  you  start  with  a  lecture  on  architecture  (which  he 
didn't  in  the  least  want  to  hear),  and  then,  when  he 
finds  a  chance  to  pull  you  up,  you  take  the  disinter- 
ested line  and  put  us  all  in  the  cart." 

"You  hit  it  precisely,"  answered  Brother  Copas, 
"as  only  a  Protestant  can.  His  eye  is  always  upon 
his  neighbour's  defects,  and  I  never  cease  to  marvel 
at  its  adeptness.  .  .  .  Well,  I  do  seem  to  owe  you 
an  apology.  But  I  cannot  agree  that  the  Bishop  was 
bored.  To  me  he  appeared  to  listen  very  attentively." 

"He  affected  to,  while  he  could:  for  he  saw  that 
you  were  playing  his  game.  His  whole  object  being 
to  head  off  our  Petition  while  pretending  to  grant  it, 
the  more  nonsense  you  talked,  within  limits,  the  bet- 
ter he  was  pleased." 

Brother  Copas  pondered  a  moment. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  chuckled,  "it  was  some- 
thing of  a  feat  to  take  a  religious  cock-pit  and  turn 
261 


BROTHER  COPAS 

it  into  an  Old  Men's  Mutual  Improvement  Society. 
Since  the  Wesleyans  took  over  the  Westminster  Aqua- 
rium— 

"  You  need  not  add  insult  to  injury." 

"'Injury'?  My  good  Warboise,  a  truce  is  not  a 
treaty:  still  less  is  it  a  defeat.  .  .  .  Now  look  here. 
You  are  in  a  raging  bad  temper  this  evening,  and  you 
tell  yourself  it 's  because  the  Bishop,  with  my  artless 
aid,  has — as  you  express  it — put  you  in  the  cart.  Now 
I  am  going  to  prove  to  you  that  the  true  reason  is  a 
quite  different  one.  For  why  ?  Because,  though  you 
may  not  know  it,  you  have  been  in  a  raging  bad  tem- 
per ever  since  this  business  was  broached,  three  months 
ago.  Why  again?  I  have  hinted  the  answer  more 
than  once;  and  now  I  will  put  it  as  a  question.  Had 
Zimri  peace,  who  slew  His  Master?" 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do!  You  are  in  a  raging  bad  temper, 
being  at  heart  more  decent  than  any  of  your  silly  con- 
victions, because  you  have  wounded  for  their  sake  the 
eminent  Christian  gentleman  now  coming  towards 
us  along  the  river-path.  He  has  been  escorting  the 
Bishop  for  some  distance  on  his  homeward  way,  and 
has  just  parted  from  him.  I  '11  wager  that  he  meets 
us  without  a  touch  of  resentment.  .  .  .  Ah,  Brother, 
you  have  cause  to  be  full  of  wrath!" 

Sure  enough  the  Master,  approaching  and  recognis- 
ing the  pair,  hailed  them  gaily. 
262 


MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

"Eh?  Brother  Copas— Brother  Warboise— a  fine 
evening!  But  the  swallows  will  be  leaving  us  in  a 
week  or  two." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  he  would  pass  on,  with  no 
more  than  the  usual  nod  and  fatherly  smile.  He  had 
indeed  taken  a  step  or  two  past  them  as  they  stood 
aside  for  him  in  the  narrow  path:  but  on  a  sudden 
thought  he  halted  and  turned  about. 

"By  the  way — that  sick  friend  of  yours,  Brother 
Warboise.  ...  I  was  intending  to  ask  about  him. 
Paralysed,  I  think  you  said?  Do  I  know  him?" 

"  He  is  not  my  friend,"  answered  Brother  Warboise 
gruffly. 

"  His  name  is  Weekes,"  said  Brother  Copas,  answer- 
ing the  Master's  puzzled  look.  "He  was  a  master- 
printer  in  his  time,  an  able  fellow,  but  addicted  to 
drink  and  improvident.  His  downfall  assisted  that  of 
Brother  Warboise's  stationery  business,  and  Brother 
Warboise  has  never  forgiven  him." 

"Dear,  dear!"  Master  Blanchminster  passed  a  hand 
over  his  brow.  "  But  if  that's  so,  I  don't  see — 

"  It 's  a  curious  story,"  said  Brother  Copas,  smiling. 

"  It 's  one  you  have  no  right  to  meddle  with,  any 
way,"  growled  Brother  Warboise;  "and,  what 's  more, 
you  can't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  It  came  to  me  through  the  child  Corona,"  pursued 
Brother  Copas  imperturbably.  "You  took  her  to 
Weekes's  house  to  tea  one  afternoon,  and  she  had 
263 


BROTHER  COPAS 

it  from  Weekes's  wife.  It 's  astonishing  how  these 
women  will  talk." 

"I  've  known  some  men  too,  for  that  matter " 

"  It 's  useless  for  you  to  keep  interrupting.  The 
Master  has  asked  for  information,  and  I  am  going  to 
tell  him  the  story — that  is,  sir,  if  you  can  spare  a  few 
minutes  to  hear  it." 

"You  are  sure  it  will  take  but  a  few  minutes?" 
asked  Master  Blanchminster  doubtfully. 

"Eh,  Master?"  Brother  Copas  laughed.  "Did 
you,  too,  find  me  somewhat  prolix  this  afternoon?" 

"Well,  you  shall  tell  me  the  story.  But  since  it  is 
not  good  for  us  to  be  standing  here  among  the  river 
damps,  I  suggest  that  you  turn  back  with  me  towards 
St.  Hospital,  and  where  the  path  widens  so  that  we 
can  walk  three  abreast  you  shall  begin." 

"With  your  leave,  Master,  I  would  be  excused," 
said  Brother  Warboise. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  Brother  Copas  assured  him. 
"  For  unless  you  come  too,  I  promise  to  leave  out  all 
the  discreditable  part  of  the  story  and  paint  you  with 
a  halo.  ...  It  began,  sir,  in  this  way,"  he  took  up 
the  tale  as  they  reached  the  wider  path,  "when  the 
man  Weekes  fell  under  a  paralytic  stroke,  Warboise 
took  occasion  to  call  on  him.  Perhaps,  Brother,  you 
will  tell  us  why?" 

"  I  saw  in  his  seizure  the  visitation  of  God's  wrath," 
said  Warboise.  "The  man  had  done  me  a  notorious 
264 


MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

wrong.  He  had  been  a  swindler,  and  my  business  was 
destroyed  through  him." 

"  Mrs.  Weeks  said  that  even  the  sight  of  the  wretch's 
affliction  did  not  hinder  our  Brother  from  denouncing 
him.  He  sat  down  in  a  chair  facing  the  paralytic,  and 
talked  of  the  debt:  'which  now/  said  he,  'you  will 
never  be  able  to  pay.'  .  .  .  Nay,  Master,  there  is 
better  to  come.  When  Brother  Warboise  got  up  to 
take  his  leave,  the  man's  lips  moved,  and  he  tried  to 
say  something.  His  wife  listened  for  some  time,  and 
then  reported, '  He  wants  you  to  come  again.'  Brother 
Warboise  wondered  at  this;  but  he  called  again  next 
day.  WTiereupon  the  pleasure  in  the  man's  face  so 
irritated  him,  that  he  sat  down  again  and  began  to  talk 
of  the  debt  and  God's  judgment,  in  words  more  op- 
probrious than  before.  .  .  .  His  own  affairs,  just  then, 
were  going  from  bad  to  worse:  and  in  short  he  found 
so  much  relief  in  bullying  the  author  of  his  misfortunes, 
who  could  not  answer  back,  that  the  call  became  a 
daily  one.  As  for  the  woman,  she  endured  it,  seeing 
that  in  some  mysterious  way  it  did  her  husband  good.' 

"  There  was  nothing  mysterious  about  it,"  objected 
Brother  Warboise.  "He  knew  himself  a  sinner,  and 
desired  to  pay  some  of  his  penance  before  meeting  his 
God." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Copas.  "But  whether 
you  're  right  or  wrong,  it  doesn't  affect  the  story  much. 
...  At  length  some  friends  extricated  our  Brother 
265 


BROTHER  COPAS 

from  his  stationery  business,  and  got  him  admitted  to 
the  Blanchminster  Charity.  The  first  afternoon  he 
paid  a  visit  in  his  black  gown,  the  sick  man's  face  so 
lit  up  at  the  sight  that  Warboise  flew  into  a  passion — 
did  you  not,  Brother?" 

"Did  the  child  tell  you  all  this?" 

"Aye:   from  the  woman's  lips." 

"I  was  annoyed,  because  all  of  a  sudden  it  struck 
me  that,  in  revenge  for  my  straight  talk,  Weekes  had 
been  wanting  me  to  call  day  by  day  that  he  might 
watch  me  going  downhill;  and  that  now  he  was  gloat- 
ing to  see  me  reduced  to  a  Blanchminster  gown.  So 
I  said,  'You  blackguard,  you  may  look  your  fill,  and 
carry  the  recollection  of  it  to  the  Throne  of  Judgment, 
where  I  hope  it  may  help  you.  But  this  is  your  last 
sight  of  me.'" 

"Quite  correct,"  nodded  Copas.  "Mrs.  Weekes 
corroborates.  .  .  .  Well,  Master,  our  Brother  trudged 
back  to  St.  Hospital  with  this  resolve,  and  for  a  week 
paid  no  more  visits  to  the  sick.  By  the  end  of  that 
time  he  had  discovered,  to  his  surprise,  that  he  could 
not  do  without  them — that  somehow  Weekes  had  be- 
come as  necessary  to  him  as  he  to  Weekes." 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?"  asked  Brother  War- 
boise sharply. 

"Easily  enough,  as  the  child  told  the  story.  .  .  . 
At  any  rate,  you  went.  At  the  door  of  the  house  you 
met  Mrs.  Weekes.  She  had  put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
266 


MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

was  coming  that  very  afternoon  to  beseech  your  re- 
turn. You  have  called  daily  ever  since  to  talk  about 
your  debt,  though  the  Statute  of  Limitations  has  closed 
it  for  years.  .  .  .  That,  Master,  is  the  story." 

"You  have  told  it  fairly  enough,"  said  Warboise. 
"  Now,  since  the  Master  knows  it,  I  'd  be  glad  to  be 
told  if  that  man  is  my  friend  or  my  enemy.  Upon 
my  word  I  don't  rightly  know,  and  if  he  knows  he  '11 
never  find  speech  to  tell  me.  Sometimes  I  think  he  's 
both." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  one  differs  very  much  from  the 
other,  in  the  long  run,"  said  Copas. 

But  the  Master,  who  had  been  musing,  turned  to 
Warboise  with  a  quick  smile. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  there  is  one  easy  way  of  choos- 
ing. Take  the  poor  fellow  some  little  gift.  If  you 
will  accept  it  for  him,  I  shall  be  happy  to  contribute 
now  and  then  some  grapes  or  a  bottle  of  wine  or  other 
small  comforts." 

He  paused,  and  added  with  another  smile,  still 
more  penetrating — 

"You  need  not  give  up  talking  of  the  debt,  you 
know!" 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  gateway  of  his 
lodging,  and  he  gave  them  a  fatherly  good  night  just 
as  a  child's  laugh  reached  them  through  the  dusk  at 
the  end  of  the  roadway.  It  was  Corona,  returning 
from  rehearsal;  and  the  Chaplain — the  redoubtable 
267 


BROTHER  COPAS 

William  the  Conqueror — was  her  escort.  The  two 
had  made  friends  on  their  homeward  way,  and  were 
talking  gaily. 

"Why,  here  is  Uncle  Copas!"  called  Corona,  and 
ran  to  him. 

Mr.  Colt  relinquished  his  charge  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand.  His  manner  showed  that  he  accepted  the  new 
truce  de  bon  casur. 

"Is  it  peace,  you  two?"  he  called,  as  he  went  past. 

Brother  Warboise  growled.  What  hast  thou  to  do 
with  peace  ?  Get  thee  behind  me,  the  growl  seemed  to 
suggest.  At  all  events,  it  suggested  this  answer  to 
Brother  Copas — 

"  If  you  and  Jehu  the  son  of  Nimshi  start  exchang- 
ing rdles,"  he  chuckled,  "where  will  Weekes  come 
in?" 

Master  Blanchrninster  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key, and  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  library.  On  the 
way  he  meditated  on  the  story  to  which  he  had  just 
listened,  and  the  words  that  haunted  his  mind  were 
Wordsworth's — 

"Alas!  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning." 

A  solitary  light  burned  in  the  library — the  electric 

lamp  on  his  table  beside  the  fire-place.     It  had  a 

268 


MR.  SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

green  shade,  and  for  a  second  or  two  the  Master  did 
not  perceive  that  some  one  stood  a  pace  or  two  from 
it  in  the  penumbra. 

"Master!" 

"Hey!"— with  a  start— "Is  it  Simeon?  ...  My 
good  Simeon,  you  made  me  jump.  What  brings  you 
back  here  at  this  hour?  You  've  forgotten  some 
paper,  I  suppose." 

"No,  Master." 

"What  then?" 

By  the  faint  greenish  light  the  Master  missed  to 
observe  that  Mr.  Simeon's  face  was  deadly  pale. 

"Master,  I  have  come  to  make  confession — to 
throw  myself  on  your  mercy!  For  a  long  time — for 
a  year  almost — I  have  been  living  dishonestly.  .  .  . 
Master,  do  you  believe  in  miracles?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer.  Master 
Blanchminster  walked  back  to  an  electric  button  be- 
side the  door,  and  turned  on  more  light  with  a  finger 
that  trembled  slightly. 

"If  you  have  been  living  dishonestly,  Simeon,  I 
certainly  shall  believe  in  miracles." 

"  But  I  mean  real  miracles,  Master." 

"You  are  agitated,  Simeon.  Take  a  seat  and  tell 
me  your  trouble  in  your  own  way — beginning,  if  you 
please,  with  the  miracle." 

"  It  was  that  which  brought  me.     Until  it  happened 

I  could  not  find  courage ' 

269 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Mr.  Simeon's  eyes  wandered  to  this  side  and  that, 
as  though  they  still  sought  a  last  chance  of  escape. 

"The  facts,  if  you  please?" 

The  Master's  voice  had  of  a  sudden  become  cold, 
even  stern.  He  flung  the  words  much  as  one  dashes 
a  cupful  of  water  in  the  face  of  an  hysterical  woman. 
They  brought  Mr.  Simeon  to  himself.  His  gaze 
shivered  and  fixed  itself  on  the  Master's,  as  in  a  com- 
pass-box you  may  see  the  needle  tremble  to  magnetic 
north.  He  gripped  the  arms  of  his  chair,  caught  his 
voice,  and  went  on  desperately. 

"This  afternoon  it  was.  .  .  .  On  my  way  here  I 
went  around,  as  I  go  daily,  by  the  Cathedral,  to  hear 
if  the  workmen  have  found  any  fresh  defects.  .  .  . 
They  had  opened  a  new  pit  by  the  south-east  corner, 
a  few  yards  from  the  first,  and  as  I  came  by  one  of  the 
men  was  levering  away  with  a  crowbar  at  a  large  stone 
not  far  below  the  surface.  I  waited  while  he  worked 
it  loose,  and  then,  lifting  it  with  both  hands,  he  flung 
it  on  to  the  edge  of  the  pit.  .  .  .  By  the  shape  we 
knew  it  at  once  for  an  old  grave-stone  that,  falling  down 
long  ago,  had  somehow  sunk  and  been  covered  by  the 
turf.  There  was  lettering,  too,  upon  the  undermost 
side  when  the  man  turned  it  over.  He  scraped  the 
earth  away  with  the  flat  of  his  hands,  and  together  we 
made  out  what  was  written." 

Mr.  Simeon  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  drew 
forth  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  handed  it  to  the  Master. 
270 


MR.   SIMEON  MAKES  A  CLEAN  BREAST 

"I  copied  it  down  then  and  there:  no,  not  at  once. 
At  first  I  looked  up,  afraid  to  see  the  whole  building 
falling,  falling  upon  me " 

The  Master  did  not  hear.  He  had  unfolded  the 
paper.  Adjusting  his  spectacles,  he  read,  God  have 
Mercy  on  the  Soul  of  Giles  Tonkin.  Obiit.  Dec.  17th, 
1643.  No  man  can  serve  two  masters. 

"A  strange  text  for  a  tombstone,"  he  commented. 
"And  the  date — 1643?  That  is  the  year  when  our 
city  surrendered  in  the  Parliament  wars.  .  .  .  Who 
knows  but  this  may  have  marked  the  grave  of  a  man 
shot  because  he  hesitated  too  long  in  taking  sides 
...  or  perchance  in  his  flurry  he  took  both,  and 
tried  to  serve  two  masters." 

"  Master,  I  am  that  man.  ...  Do  not  look  at  me 
so!  I  mean  that,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not,  he  died 
to  save  me  ...  that  his  stone  has  risen  up  for  witness, 
driving  me  to  you.  Ah,  do  not  weaken  me,  now  that 
I  am  here  to  confess!" 

And  leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his 
hands  spread  to  hide  his  face,  Mr.  Simeon  blurted  out 
his  confession. 

When  he  had  ended  there  was  silence  in  the  room 
for  a  space. 

"Tarbolt!"  murmured  the  Master,  just  audibly  and 
no  more.  "If  it  had  been  anyone  but  Tarbolt!" 

There  was  another  silence,  broken  only  by  one 
slow  sob. 

271 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"For  either  he  will  hate  the  one  and  love  the  other; 
or  else  he  will  hold  to  the  one  and  despise  the  other.  .  .  . 
Simeon,  which  was  I?" 

Mr.  Simeon  forced  himself  to  look  up.  Tears  were 
in  his  eyes,  but  they  shone. 

"Master,  can  you  doubt?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  appear  brutal,"  said  Master  Blanch- 
minster,  coldly  and  wearily,  "but  my  experiences  to- 
day have  been  somewhat  trying  for  an  old  man.  May 
I  ask  if,  on  taking  your  resolution  to  confess,  you  came 
straight  to  me;  or  if,  receiving  just  dismissal  from  my 
service,  you  yet  hold  Canon  Tarbolt  in  reserve?" 

Mr.  Simeon  stood  up. 

"  I  have  behaved  so  badly  to  you,  sir,  that  you  have 
a  right  to  ask  it.  But  as  a  fact  I  went  to  Canon  Tar- 
bolt  first,  and  said  I  could  no  longer  work  for  him." 

"Sit  down,  please.  .  .  .  How  many  children  have 
you,  Mr.  Simeon?" 

"Seven,  sir.  .  .  .  The  seventh  arrived  a  fortnight 
ago — yesterday  fortnight,  to  be  precise.  A  fine  boy, 
I  am  happy  to  say." 

He  looked  up  pitifully.  The  Master  stood  above 
him,  smiling  down;  and  while  the  Master's  stature 
seemed  to  have  taken  some  additional  inches,  his  smile 
seemed  to  irradiate  the  room. 

"  Simeon,  I  begin  to  think  it  high  time  I  raised  your 
salary." 


272 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

THE  May-fly  season  had  come  around  again,  and 
Corona  was  spending  her  Saturday — the  Greycoats' 
holiday — with  Brother  Copas  by  the  banks  of  Mere. 
They  had  brought  their  frugal  luncheon  in  the  creel 
which  was  to  contain  the  trout  Brother  Copas  hoped 
to  catch.  He  hoped  to  catch  a  brace  at  least — one 
for  his  sick  friend  at  home,  the  other  to  replenish  his 
own  empty  cupboard:  for  this  excursion  meant  his 
missing  to  attend  at  the  kitchen  and  receive  his  daily 
dole. 

There  may  have  been  thunder  in  the  air.  At  any 
rate  the  fish  refused  to  feed;  and  after  an  hour's 
patient  waiting  for  sign  of  a  rise — without  which  his 
angling  would  be  but  idle  pains — Brother  Copas 
found  a  seat,  and  pulled  out  a  book  from  his  pocket, 
while  Corona  wandered  over  the  meadows  in  search 
of  larks'  nests.  But  this  again  was  pains  thrown 
away;  since,  as  Brother  Copas  afterwards  explained, 
in  the  first  place  the  buttercups  hid  them,  and  secondly 
the  nests  were  not  there! — the  birds  preferring  the 
high  chalky  downs  for  their  nurseries.  She  knew, 
273 


BROTHER  COPAS 

however,  that  along  the  ditches  where  the  willows 
grew,  and  the  alder  clumps,  there  must  be  scores  of 
warblers  and  other  late-breeding  birds;  for  walking 
here  in  the  winter  she  had  marvelled  at  the  number 
of  nests  laid  bare  by  the  fall  ng  leaves.  These  war- 
blers wait  for  the  leaves  to  conceal  their  building,  and 
Winter  may  an  it  will  betray  the  deserted  hiding-place. 
So  Brother  Copas  had  told  her,  to  himself  repeating — 

"Cras  amorum  copulatrix  inter  umbras  arborum 
Inplicat   gazas    virentes   de  flagello    myrteo.  ..." 

Corona  found  five  of  these  nests,  and  studied  them: 
flimsy  things,  constructed  of  a  few  dried  grasses,  in- 
woven with  horsehair  and  cobwebs.  Before  next 
spring  the  rains  would  dissolve  them  and  they  would 
disappear. 

She  returned  with  a  huge  posy  of  wild  flowers  and 
the  information  that  she,  for  her  part,  felt  hungry  as 
a  hunter.  .  .  .  They  disposed  themselves  to  eat. 

"  Do  you  know,  Uncle  Copas,"  she  asked  suddenly, 
"why  I  have  dragged  you  out  here  to-day?" 

"Did  I  show  myself  so  reluctant?"  he  protested; 
but  she  paid  no  heed  to  this. 

"  It  is  because  I  came  home  here  to  England,  to  St. 
Hospital,  just  a  year  ago  this  very  afternoon.  This 
is  my  Thanksgiving  Day,"  added  Corona  solemnly. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  no  turkey  in  the  hamper," 
said  Brother  Copas,  pretending  to  search.  "  We  must 
274 


CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

console  ourselves  by  reflecting  that  the  bird  is  out  of 
season." 

"  You  didn't  remember  the  date,  Uncle  Copas.  Did 
you,  now?" 

"  I  did,  though."  Brother  Copas  gazed  at  the  run- 
ning water  for  a  space  and  then  turned  to  her  with  a 
quick  smile.  "  Why,  child,  of  course  I  did !  .  .  .  And 
I  appreciate  the  honour." 

Corona  nodded  as  she  broke  off  a  piece  of  crust  and 
munched  it. 

"  I  wanted  to  take  stock  of  it  all.  (We  're  dining 
out  of  doors,  so  please  let  me  talk  with  my  mouth  full. 
I  'm  learning  to  eat  slowly,  like  a  good  English  girl: 
only  it  takes  so  much  time  when  there  's  a  lot  to  say.) 
Well,  I  've  had  a  good  time,  and  nobody  can  take  that 
away,  thank  the  Lord!  It — it 's  been  just  heavenly." 

"  A  good  time  for  all  of  us,  little  maid." 

"  Honest  Indian  ?  .  .  .  But  it  can't  last,  you  know. 
That 's  what  we  have  to  consider:  and  it  mayn't  be  a 
gay  thought,  but  I  'd  hate  to  be  one  of  those  folks  that 
never  see  what 's  over  the  next  fence.  ...  Of  course," 
said  Corona  pensively,  "  It 's  up  to  you  to  tell  me  I 
dropped  in  on  St.  Hospital  like  one  of  Solomon's  lilies 
that  take  no  thought  for  to-morrow.  But  I  didn't, 
really:  for  I  always  knew  this  was  going  to  be  the  time 
of  my  life." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Copas.  "Why  should 
it  not  last?" 

275 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  I  guess  you  and  I  '11  have  to  be  serious,"  she  an- 
swered. "Daddy  gets  frailer  and  frailer.  .  .  .  You 
can't  hide  from  me  that  you  know  it:  and  please  don't 
try,  for  I  've  to  think  of — of  the  afterwards,  and  I  want 
you  to  help." 

"But  suppose  that  I  have  been  thinking  about  it 
already — thinking  about  it  hard  ?  "  said  Brother  Copas 
slowly.  "  Ah,  child,  leave  it  to  me,  and  never  talk  like 
that!" 

"But  why?"  she  asked,  wondering. 

"Because  we  old  folks  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  child 
talking,  like  one  of  ourselves,  of  troubles.  That  has 
been  our  business:  we  've  seen  it  through;  and  now 
our  best  happiness  lies  in  looking  back  on  the  young, 
and  looking  forward  for  them,  and  keeping  them 
young  and  happy  so  long  as  the  gods  allow.  .  .  . 
Never  search  out  ways  of  rewarding  us.  To  see  you 
just  going  about  with  a  light  heart  is  a  better  reward 
than  ever  you  could  contrive  for  us  by  study.  Child, 
if  the  gods  allowed,  I  would  keep  you  always  like 
Master  Walton's  milkmaid,  that  had  not  yet  attained 
so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any 
fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be,  as  too  many 
men  too  often  do.  But  she  cast  away  care — 

"  I  think  she  must  have  been  a  pretty  silly  sort  of 
milkmaid,"  said  Corona.  "  Likely  she  ended  to  slow 
music  while  the  cows  came  home.  But  what  wor- 
ries me  is  that  I  'm  young  and  don't  see  any  way  to 
276 


CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

hurry  things.  Miss  Champernowne  won't  let  me  join 
the  Cookery  class  because  I  'm  under  the  age  for  it: 
and  I  see  she  talks  sense  in  her  way.  Even  if  I  learnt 
cookery  and  let  down  my  skirts,  who  's  going  to  en- 
gage me  for  a  cook-general  at  my  time  of  life?" 

"Nobody,  please  God,"  answered  Brother  Copas, 
copying  her  seriousness.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  I  have 
been  thinking  about  all  this?  If  you  must  know,  I 
have  talked  it  over  with  the  Master  .  .  .  and  the  long 
and  short  of  it  is  that,  if  or  when  the  time  should  come, 
I  can  step  in  and  make  a  claim  for  you  as  your  only 
known  guardian.  My  dear  child,  St.  Hospital  will 
not  let  you  go." 

For  a  moment  Corona  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
She  sat  with  her  palms  laid  on  her  lap,  and  stared  at 
the  blurred  outline  of  the  chalk-hills — blurred  by  the 
mist  in  her  eyes.  Two  great  tears  welled  and  splashed 
down  on  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"The  years  and  years,"  she  murmured,  "before  I 
can  begin  to  pay  it  back!" 

"Nay"— Brother  Copas  set  down  his  half-filled 
glass,  took  the  hand  and  gently  wiped  it  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  frayed  gown;  and  so  held  it,  smoothing  it  while 
he  spoke,  as  though  the  tear  had  hurt  it — "  it  is  we  who 
are  repaying  you.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  told  the 
Master  ?  '  Master/  I  said, '  all  we  Brethren,  ever  since 
I  can  remember,  have  been  wearing  gowns  as  more  or 
less  conscious  humbugs.  Christ  taught  that  poverty 
277 


BROTHER  COPAS 

was  noble,  and  such  a  gospel  might  be  accepted  by 
the  East.  It  might  persevere  along  the  Mediterranean 
coast,  and  survive  what  St.  Paul  did  to  Christianity  to 
make  Christianity  popular.  It  might  reach  Italy  and 
flame  up  in  a  crazed  good  soul  like  the  soul  of  St. 
Francis.  It  might  creep  along  as  a  pious  opinion,  and 
even  reach  England,  to  be  acknowledged  on  a  king's 
or  a  rowdy's  deathbed — and  Alberic  de  Blanchmin- 
ster/  said  I,  '  (saving  your  presence,  sir)  was  a  rowdy 
robber  who,  being  afraid  when  it  came  to  dying,  caught 
at  the  Christian  precept  he  has  most  neglected  as  be- 
ing therefore  in  all  probability  the  decentest.  But  no 
Englishman,  not  being  on  his  deathbed,  ever  believed 
it:  and  we  knew  better — until  this  child  came  along 
and  taught  us.  The  Brethren's  livery  has  always  been 
popular  enough  in  the  streets  of  Merchester:  but  she 
— she  taught  us  (God  bless  her)  that  it  can  be  honoured 
for  its  own  sake;  that  it  is  noble  and,  best  of  all,  that 
its  noblesse  oblige'  .  .  .  Ah,  little  maid,  you  do  not 
guess  your  strength!" 

Corona  understood  very  little  of  all  this.  But  she 
understood  that  Uncle  Copas  loved  her,  and  was  utter- 
ing these  whimsies  to  cover  up  the  love  he  revealed. 
She  did  better  than  answer  him  in  words:  she  nestled 
to  his  shoulder,  rubbing  her  cheek  softly  against  the 
threadbare  gown 

"When  is  your  birthday,  little  one?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Corona  confessed.  "Mother 
278 


CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

never  would  tell  me.  She  would  get  angry  about 
birthdays,  and  say  she  never  took  any  truck  with 
them.  .  .  .  But  of  course  everyone  ought  to  have  a 
birthday,  of  sorts,  and  so  I  call  this  my  real  one.  But 
I  never  told  you  that— did  I?" 

"  I  heard  you  say  once  that  you  left  a  little  girl  be- 
hind you  somewhere  in  the  States,  but  that  you  only 
came  to  yourself  the  day  you  reached  England." 

"Yes;  and  I  do  feel  sorry  for  that  other  little  girl 
sometimes!" 

"  You  need  not.  She  '11  grow  up  to  be  an  American 
woman:  and  the  American  woman,  as  everybody 
knows,  has  all  the  fun  of  the  fair.  .  .  .  To-day  is 
your  birthday,  then;  and  see!  I  have  brought  along 
a  bottle  of  claret,  to  drink  your  health.  It  isn't — as 
the  Irish  butler  said — the  best  claret,  but  it 's  the  best 
we  've  got.  Your  good  health,  Miss  Corona,  and 
many  happy  returns!" 

"Which,"  responded  Corona,  lifting  her  cupful  of 
milk,  "  I  looks  towards  you  and  I  likewise  bows.  .  .  . 
Would  you,  by  the  way,  very  much  object  if  I  fetched 
Timothy  out  of  the  basket  ?  He  gets  so  few  pleasures/ 

For  the  rest  of  the  meal,  by  the  clear-running  river, 
they    talked    sheer    delightful    nonsense.  .  .  .  When^ 
(as  Brother  Copas  expressed  it)  they  had  "put  from 
themselves  the  desire  of  meat  and  drink,"  he  lit  a  pipe 
and  smoked  tranquilly,  still  now  and  again,  however, 
sipping  absent-mindedly  at  his  thin  claret. 
279 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"  But  you  are  not  to  drink  more  than  half  a  bottle," 
Corona  commanded.  "  The  rest  we  must  carry  home 
for  supper." 

"  So  poor  a  vintage  as  this,  once  opened,  will  hardly 
bear  the  journey,"  he  protested.  "  But  what  are  you 
saying  about  supper?" 

"  ^Tiy,  you  wouldn't  leave  poor  old  Daddy  quite 
out  of  the  birthday,  I  hope!  .  .  .  There  's  to  be  a 
supper  to-night.  Branny  's  coming." 

"Am  I  to  take  this  for  an  invitation?" 

"  Of  course  you  are.  .  .  .  There  will  be  speeches." 

"The  dickens  is,  there  won't  be  any  trout  at  this 
rate!" 

"  They  '11  be  rising  before  evening,"  said  Corona 
confidently.  "And,  anyway,  we  can't  hurry  them." 

From  far  up  stream,  where  the  grey  mass  of  the 
Cathedral  blocked  the  vale,  a  faint  tapping  sound 
reached  them,  borne  on  "  the  cessile  air."  It  came 
from  the  Pageant  Ground,  where  workmen  were  ham- 
mering busily  at  the  Grand  Stand.  It  set  them  talking 
of  the  Pageant,  of  Corona's  "  May  Queen"  dress,  of  the 
lines  (or,  to  be  accurate,  the  line  and  a  half)  she  had 
to  speak.  This  led  to  her  repeating  some  verses  she 
had  learnt  at  the  Greycoats'  School.  They  began — 

"I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers." 

And  Corona  was  crazy  over  them,  because  (as  she 

put  it)  "  they  made  you  feel  you  were  smelling  all  Eng- 

280 


CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

land  out  of  a  bottle."  Brother  Copas  told  her  of  the 
man  who  had  written  them;  and  of  a  lovelier  poem 
he  had  written  To  Meadows — 

"Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 

Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers, 
And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids   have   spent   their  hours. 

"You  have  beheld  how  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come. 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home.  .  .  . 

"But  now  we  see  none  here " 

He  broke  off. 

"Ah,  there  he  gets  at  the  pang  of  it!  Other  poets 
have  wasted  pity  on  the  dead-and-gone-maids,  but  his 
is  for  the  fields  they  leave  desolate." 

This  puzzled  Corona.  But  the  poem  had  touched 
her  somehow,  and  she  kept  repeating  snatches  of  it 
to  herself  as  she  rambled  off  in  search  of  more  birds' 
nests.  Left  to  himself,  Brother  Copas  pulled  out 
book  and  pencil  again,  and  began  botching  at  the  last 
lines  of  the  Pervigilium  Veneris — 

"Her  favour  it  was  filled  the  sail  of  the  Trojan  for  Latium 

bound; 
Her  favour  that  won  her  sEneas  a  bride  on  Laurentian 

ground; 

281 


BROTHER  COPAS 

And  anon  from  the  cloister  her  wit  wooed  the  Vestal,  the  Vir- 
gin, to  Mars, 

As  her  wit  by  the  wild  Sabine  rape  recreated  her  Rome  for 
its  wars 

With  the  Ramnes,  Quirites,  together  ancestrally  proud  as 
they  drew 

From  Romulus  down  to  our  Ccesar — last,  best  of  that  bone 
and  that  thew. — 

Now  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 
loved,  love  anew!" 

Brother  Copas  paused  to  trim  his  pencil,  which  was 
blunt.  His  gaze  wandered  across  the  water-meadows 
and  overtook  Corona,  who  was  wading  deep  in  butter- 
cups. 

"Proserpine  on  the  fields  of  Enna!"  he  muttered, 
and  resumed — 

"Love  planteth  a  field;  it  conceives  to  the  passion,  the  pang, 

of  his  joy. 

In  afield  was  Dione  in  labour  delivered  of  Cupid  the  Boy: 
And  the  field  in  its  fostering  lap  from  her  travail  receiv'd 

him:  he  drew 
Mother's  milk  from  the  delicate  kisses  of  flowers;  and  he 

prospered  and  grew. — 
Now  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 

loved,  love  anew!" 

"Why  do  I  translate  this  stuff?  Why,  but  for  the 
sake  of  a  child  who  will  never  see  it — who,  if  she  read 
it,  would  not  understand  a  word?" 

282 


CORONA'S  BIRTHDAY 

"I/o/    Behold  ye  the  bulls,  with  how  lordly  a  flank  they  be- 

sprawl  on  the  broom! 
— Yet  obey  the  uxorious  yoke  and  are  tamed  by  Dione  her 

doom. 
Or  behear  ye  the  sheep,  to  the  husbanding  rams  how  they 

bleat  to  the  shade! 
Or  behear  ye  the  birds,  at  the  Goddess1  command  how  they 

sing  unafraid! — 
Be  it  harsh  as  the  swannery's  clamour  that  shatters  the  hush 

of  the  lake; 
Be  it  dulcet  as  where  Philomela  holds  darkling  the  poplar 

awake, 

So  melting  her  soul  into  music,  you  'd  vow  'twas  her  pas- 
sion, her  own, 
She  chanteth — her  sister  forgot,  with  the  Daulian  crime 

long-agone. 

Hush!    Hark!   Draw  around  to  the  circle.  .  .  .  Ah,  loiter- 
ing Summer,  say  when 
For  me  shall  be  broken  the  charm,  that  I  chirp  with  the 

swallow  again? 
I  am  old:  I  am  dumb:  I  have  waited  to  sing  till  Apollo 

withdrew. 
— So  Amycla-.  a  moment  was  mute,  and  for  ever  a  wilderness 

qrew. — 
Now  learn  ye  to  love  who  loved  never — now  ye  who  have 

loved,  love  anew!" 

"  Perdidi  musam  tacendo,"  murmured  Brother  Co- 
pas,  gazing  afield.    "  Only  the  young  can  speak  to  the 
young.  .  .  .  God  grant  that,  at  the  right  time,  the 
283 


BROTHER  COPAS 

right  Prince  may  come  to  her  over  the  meadows,  and 
discourse  honest  music!" 

Splash! 

He  sprang  up  and  snatched  at  his  rod.  A  two- 
pound  trout  had  risen  almost  under  his  nose. 


284 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

THE  great  day  dawned  at  last:  the  day  to  which  all 
Merchester  had  looked  forward  for  months,  for  which 
so  many  hundreds  had  been  working,  on  which  all 
must  now  pin  their  hopes:  the  opening  day  of  Pageant 
Week. 

I  suppose  that  never  in  Merchester's  long  history 
had  her  citizens  so  frequently  or  so  nervously  studied 
their  weather-glasses. 

"Tarbolt,  of  all  people!"  murmured  Brother  Copas 
one  afternoon  in  the  Venables  Free  Library. 

He  had  just  met  the  Canon  coming  down  the  stairs, 
and  turned  to  watch  the  retreating  figure  to  the  door- 
way. 

"  I  am  suffering  from  a  severe  shock,"  he  announced 
five  minutes  later  to  Mr.  Simeon,  whom  he  found  at 
work  in  Paradise.  "  Did  you  ever  know  your  friend 
Tarbolt  patronise  this  institution  before?" 

"Never,"  answered  Mr.  Simeon,  flushing. 

"  Well,  I  met  him  on  the  stairs  just  now.  For  a 
moment  I  knew  not  which  alternative  to  choose — 
285 


BROTHER  COPAS 

whether  your  desertion  had  driven  him  to  the  extreme 
course  of  reading  a  book  or  two  for  himself,  or  he  had 
come  desperately  in  search  of  you  to  promise  that  if 
you  returned  all  should  be  forgiven.  .  .  .  No,  you 
need  not  look  alarmed.  He  came  in  search  of  a 
newspaper." 

"But  there  are  no  newspapers  in  the  Library." 

"Quite  so:  he  has  just  made  that  discovery. 
Thereupon,  since  an  animal  of  that  breed  cannot  go 
anywhere  without  leaving  his  scent  behind  him,  he 
has  scrawled  himself  over  half  a  page  of  the  Sugges- 
tion Book.  He  wants  this  Library  to  take  in  the  Times 
newspaper,  'if  only  for  the  sake  of  its  foreign  corre- 
spondence and  its  admirable  weather-charts.'  Signed, 
'J.  Tarbolt/  What  part  is  the  humbug  sustaining, 
that  so  depends  on  the  weather?" 

"He  takes  Bishop  Henry  of  Blois  in  the  Fourth 
Episode.  He  wears  a  suit  of  complete  armour,  and 
you  cannot  conceive  how  much  it — it — improves  him. 
I  helped  him  to  try  it  on  the  other  day,"  Mr.  Simeon 
explained  with  a  smile. 

"Maybe,"  suggested  Brother  Copas,  "he  fears  the 
effect  of  rain  upon  his  'h's.'" 

But  the  glass  held  steady,  and  the  great  day  dawned 
without  a  cloud.  Good  citizens  of  Merchester,  aris- 
ing early  to  scan  the  sky,  were  surprised  to  find  their 
next-door  neighbours  already  abroad,  and  in  consulta- 

286 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

tion  with  neighbours  opposite  over  strings  of  flags  to 
be  suspended  across  the  roadway.  Mr.  Simeon,  for 
example,  peeping  out,  with  an  old  dressing-gown  cast 
over  his  nightshirt,  was  astounded  to  find  Mr.  Magor, 
the  contiguous  pork-seller,  thus  engaged  with  Mr. 
Sillifant,  the  cheap  fruiterer  across  the  way.  He  had 
accustomed  himself  to  think  of  them  as  careless  citizens 
and  uncultured,  and  their  unexpected  patriotism  gave 
him  perhaps  less  of  a  shock  than  the  discovery  that 
they  must  have  been  moving  faster  than  he  with  the 
times,  for  they  both  wore  pajamas. 

They  were  kind  to  him,  however:  and,  lifting  no 
eyebrow  over  his  antiquated  night-attire,  consulted 
him  cheerfully  over  a  string  of  flags  which  (as  it  turned 
out)  Mr.  Magor  had  paid  yesterday  a  visit  to  South- 
ampton expressly  to  borrow. 

I  mention  this  because  it  was  a  foretaste,  and  signi- 
ficant, of  the  general  enthusiasm. 

At  ten  in  the  morning  Fritz,  head  waiter  of  that 
fine  old  English  coaching  house,  "  The  Mitre,"  looked 
out  from  the  portico  where  he  stood  surrounded  by 
sporting  prints,  and  announced  to  the  young  lady  in 
the  bar  that  the  excursion  trains  must  be  "bringing 
them  in  hundreds." 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  High  Street  was  packed  with 

crowds  that  whiled  away  their  time  staring  at  the  flags 

and  decorations.     But  it  was  not  until    1   p.m.  that 

there   began   to  flow,   always   towards   the  Pageant 

287 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Ground,  a  stream  by  which  that  week,  among  the  in- 
habitants of  Merchester,  will  always  be  best  remem- 
bered; a  stream  of  folk  in  strange  dresses — knights  in 
armour,  ladies  in  flounces  and  ruffs,  ancient  Britons, 
greaved  Roman  legionaries,  monks,  cavaliers,  Geor- 
gian beaux  and  dames. 

It  appeared  as  if  all  the  dead  generations  of  Mer- 
chester had  arisen  from  their  tombs  and  reclaimed 
possession  of  her  streets.  They  shared  it,  however, 
with  throngs  of  modern  folk,  in  summer  attire,  hurry- 
ing from  early  luncheons  to  the  spectacle.  In  the 
roadway  near  the  Pageant  Ground  crusaders  and  nuns 
jostled  amid  motors  and  cabs  of  commerce. 

For  an  hour  this  mad  medley  poured  through  the 
streets  of  Merchester.  Come  with  them  to  the  Pa- 
geant Ground,  where  all  is  arranged  now  and  ready, 
waiting  the  signal! 

Punctually  at  half-past  two,  from  his  box  on  the 
roof  of  the  Grand  Stand,  Mr.  Isidore  gave  the  signal 
for  which  the  orchestra  waited.  With  a  loud  out- 
burst of  horns  and  trumpets  and  a  deep  rolling  of 
drums  the  overture  began. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  young  musician,  ambitious  to 
seize  his  opportunity.  After  stating  its  theme  largely, 
simply,  in  sixteen  strong  chords,  it  broke  into  variations 
in  which  the  audience  for  a  few  moments  might  read 
nothing  but  cacophonous  noise,  until  a  gateway  opened 
288 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

in  the  old  wall,  and  through  it  a  band  of  white-robed 
Druids  came  streaming  towards  the  stone  altar  which 
stood — the  sole  stage  "property" — in  the  centre  of 
the  green  area.  Behind  them  trooped  a  mob  of  skin- 
clothed  savages,  yelling  as  they  dragged  a  woman  to 
the  sacrifice.  It  was  these  yells  that  the  music  inter- 
preted. The  Pageant  had  opened,  and  was  chanting 
in  high  wild  notes  to  its  own  prelude. 

Almost  before  the  spectators  realised  this,  the 
Arch-Druid  had  mounted  his  altar.  He  held  a  knife 
to  the  victim's  throat.  But  meanwhile  the  low  beat 
of  a  march  had  crept  into  the  music,  and  was  asserting 
itself  more  and  more  insistently  beneath  the  discon- 
nected outcries.  It  seemed  to  grow  out  of  distance, 
to  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  as  it  were  the  tramp  of  an 
armed  host.  ...  It  was  the  tramp  of  a  host.  .  .  . 
As  the  Arch-Druid,  holding  his  knife  aloft,  dragged 
back  the  woman's  head  to  lay  her  throat  the  barer,  all 
turned  to  a  sudden  crash  of  cymbals;  and,  to  the  stern 
marching-tune  now  silencing  all  clamours,  the  ad- 
vance-guard of  Vespasian  swung  in  through  the  gate- 
way. .  .  . 

So  for  an  hour  Saxon  followed  Roman,  Dane  fol- 
lowed Saxon,  Norman  followed  both.  Alfred,  Canute, 
William — all  controlled  (as  Brother  Copas  cynically 
remarked  to  Brother  Warboise,  watching  through 
the  palings  from  the  allotted  patch  of  sward  which 
served  them  for  green-room)  by  one  small  Jew,  per- 
289 


BROTHER  COPAS 

spiring  on  the  roof  and  bawling  orders  here,  there, 
everywhere,  through  a  gigantic  megaphone;  bawling 
them  in  a  lingua  franca  to  which  these  mighty  puppets 
moved  obediently,  weaving  English  history  as  upon 
a  tapestry  swiftly,  continuously  unrolled.  "Which 
things,"  quoted  Copas  mischievously,  "are  an  alle- 
gory, Philip." 

To  the  waiting  performers  it  seemed  incredible  that 
to  the  audience,  packed  by  thousands  in  the  Grand 
Stand,  this  scolding  strident  voice  immediately  above 
their  heads  should  be  inaudible.  Yet  it  was.  All 
those  eyes  beheld,  all  those  ears  heard,  the  puppets  as 
they  postured  and  declaimed.  The  loud  little  man  on 
the  roof  they  saw  not  nor  heard. 

"  Which  things  again  are  an  allegory,"  said  Brother 
Copas. 

The  Brethren  of  St.  Hospital  had  no  Episode  of 
their  own.  But  from  the  time  of  the  Conquest  down- 
ward they  had  constantly  to  take  part  in  the  moving 
scenes  as  members  of  the  crowd,  and  the  spectators 
constantly  hailed  their  entry. 

"  Our  coat  of  poverty  is  the  wear  to  last,  after  all," 
said  Copas,  regaining  the  green-room  and  mopping  his 
brow.  "  We  have  just  seen  out  the  Plantagenets." 

In  this  humble  way,  when  the  time  came  he  looked 
on  at  the  Episode  of  Henry  the  Eighth's  visit  to  Mer- 
chester,  and  listened  to  the  blank  verse  which  he  him- 
self had  written.  The  Pageant  Committee  had  ruled 
290 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

out  the  Reformation,  but  he  had  slyly  introduced  a 
hint  of  it.  The  scene  consisted  mainly  of  revels, 
dances,  tournays,  amid  which  a  singing  man  had 
chanted,  in  a  beautiful  tenor,  Henry's  own  song  of 
Pastime  with  good  Companye. 

"Pastime  with  good  Companye, 
I  love  and  shall  until  I  die: 
Grudge  who  lust,  but  none  deny, 
So  God  be  pleased,  thus  live  will  I. 
For  my  pastance, 
Hunt,  sing  and  dance, 
My  heart  is  set. 
All  goodly  sport 
For  my  comfdrt 
Who  shall  me  let?" 

With  its  chorus — 

"For  Idleness 
Is  chief  mistress 
Of  vices  all. 

Then  who  can  say 

But  mirth  and  play 
Is  best  of  all?" 

As  to  the  tune  of  it  their  revels  ended,  Henry  and 
Catherine  of  Aragon  and  Charles  the  Emperor  passed 
from  the  sunlit  stage,  one  solitary  figure — the  blind 
Bishop  of  Merchester — lingered,  and  stretched  out 
his  hands  for  the  monks  to  come  and  lead  him  home, 
stretched  out  his  hands  towards  the  Cathedral  behind 
the  green  elms. 

291 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Being  blind,  I  trust  the  light. 
Ah,  Mother  Church!    If  fire  must  purify, 
If  tribulation  search  thee,  shall  I  plead 
Not  in  my  time,  0  Lord  '     Nay  let  me  know 
All  dark,  yet  trust  the  dawn — remembering 
The  order  of  thy  services,  thy  sweet  songs, 
Thy  decent  ministrations — Levite,  priest 
And  sacrifice — those  antepasts  of  heaven. 
We  have  sinn'd,  we  have  sinn'd!    But  never 

yet  went  out 

The  flame  upon  the  altar,  day  or  night; 
And  it  shall  save  thee,  O  Jerusalem! 
Jerusalem!" 

"And  I  stole  that  straight  out  of  Jeremy  Taylor," 
murmured  Brother  Copas,  as  the  monks  led  off  their 
Bishop,  chanting — 

"Crux  in  caelo  lux  superna, 
Sis  in  carnis  hoc  taberna 
Mihi  pedibus  lucerna — 

"Quo  vexillum  Dux  cohortis 
Sistet,  super  flumen  mortis, 
Te,  flammantibus  in  portis!" 

-"  while  I  wrote  that  dog-Latin  myself,"  said  Brother 
Copas,  musing,  forgetful  that  he,  the  author,  was 
lingering  on  the  stage  from  which  he  ought  to  have 
removed  himself  three  minutes  ago  with  the  rest  of 
the  crowd. 

292 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

"Ger'  out!     Get  off,  zat  olt  fool!     What  ze  devil 
you  mean  by  doddling!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Isidore  screeching  upon 
him  through  the  megaphone.  Brother  Copas  turned 
about,  uplifting  his  face  to  it  for  a  moment  with  a 
dazed  stare.  ...  It  seemed  that,  this  time,  every  one 
in  the  Grand  Stand  must  have  heard.  He  fled:  he 
made  the  most  ignominious  exit  in  the  whole  Pageant. 
The  afternoon  heat  was  broiling.  ...  He  had  no 
sooner  gained  the  green-room  shade  of  his  elm  than 
the  whole  of  the  Brethren  were  summoned  forth  anew; 
this  time  to  assist  at  the  spousals  of  Queen  Mary  of 
England  with  King  Philip  of  Spain.  And  this  Episode 
(Number  VII  on  the  programme)  was  Corona's. 

He  had  meant — and  again  he  cursed  his  forgetful- 
ness — to  seek  her  out  at  the  last  moment  and  whisper 
a  word  of  encouragement.  The  child  must  needs  be 
nervous.  .  .  . 

He  had  missed  his  chance  now.  He  followed  the 
troop  of  Brethren  back  into  the  arena  and  dressed 
rank  with  the  others,  salaaming  as  the  mock  poten- 
tates entered,  uttering  stage  cheers,  while  inwardly 
groaning  in  spirit.  His  eye  kept  an  anxious  sidewise 
watch  on  the  gateway  by  which  Corona  must  tmake 
her  entrance. 

She  came.     But  before  her,  leading  the  way,  strew- 
ing flowers,  came  score  upon  score  of  children  in 
regiments  of  colour— pale  blue,  pale  yellow,  green, 
293 


BROTHER  COPAS 

rose,  heliotrope.  They  conducted  her  to  the  May 
Queen's  throne,  hung  it  with  wreaths,  and  having 
paid  their  homage,  ranged  off,  regiment  by  regiment, 
to  take  their  station  for  the  dance.  And  she,  mean- 
while ?  ...  If  she  were  nervous,  no  sign  of  it  betrayed 
her.  She  walked  to  her  throne  with  the  air  of  a  small 
queen.  .  .  .  Vera  incessu  patuit — Corona;  walked, 
too,  without  airs  or  minaudcries,  unconscious  of  all  but 
the  solemn  glory.  This  was  the  pageant  of  her  be- 
loved England,  and  hers  for  the  moment  was  this 
proud  part  in  it.  Brother  Copas  brushed  his  eyes. 
In  his  ears  buzzed  the  verse  of  a  psalm — 

She  shall  be  brought  unto  the  King  in  raiment  of 
needle-work:  the  virgins  that  be  her  fellows  shall  bear 
her  company  .  .  . 

The  orchestra  struck  up  a  quick-tripping  minuet. 
The  regiments  advanced  on  curving  lines.  They 
interwove  their  ranks,  making  rainbows  of  colour; 
they  rayed  out  in  broadening  bands  of  colour  from 
Corona's  footstool.  Through  a  dozen  of  these  evolu- 
tions she  sat,  and  took  all  the  homage  imperially. 
It  was  not  given  to  her,  but  to  the  idea  for  which  she 
was  enthroned;  and  sitting,  she  nursed  the  idea  in 
her  heart. 

The  dance  over — and  twice  or  thrice  as  it  proceeded 
the  front  of  the  Grand  Stand  shook  with  the  clapping 
294 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

of  thousands  of  hands,  all  agitated  together  as  when 
a  wind  passes  over  a  wheatfield.  Corona  had  to 
arise  from  her  throne,  a  wreath  in  either  hand,  and 
deliver  a  speech  before  Queen  Mary.  The  length  of 
it  was  just  a  line  and  three  quarters — 

"Lady,  accept  these  perishable  flowers. 
Queen  May  brings  to  Queen  Mary.  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  them  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  and  all  the 
Grand  Stand  renewed  its  clapping  as  the  child  did 
obeisance. 

"First-class!"  grunted  Brother  Warboise  at  Co- 
pas's  elbow.  "Pity  old  Bonaday  couldn't  be  here  to 
see  the  girl!" 

"Aye,"  said  Copas;  but  there  was  that  in  his  throat 
which  forbade  his  saying  more. 

So  the  Pageant  went  on  unfolding  its  scenes.  Some 
of  them  were  merely  silly;  all  of  them  were  false  to 
fact,  of  course,  and  a  few  even  false  to  sentiment. 
No  entry,  for  example,  received  a  heartier  round  of 
British  applause  than  did  Nell  Gwynn's  (Episode  IX). 
Tears  actually  sprang  to  many  eyes  when  an  orange- 
girl  in  the  crowd  pushed  forward  offering  her  wares, 
and  Nell  with  a  gay  laugh  bought  fruit  of  her,  an- 
nouncing "  /  was  an  orange-girl  once ! "  Brother  Copas 
snorted,  and  snorted  again  more  loudly  when  Preben- 
295 


BROTHER  COPAS 

dary  Ken  refused  to  admit  the  naughty  ex-orange-girl 
within  his  episcopal  gates.  For  the  audience  applauded 
the  protest  almost  as  effusively,  and  again  clapped  like 
mad  when  the  Merry  Monarch  took  the  rebuke  like 
a  sportsman,  promising  that  "  the  next  Bishopric  that 
falls  vacant  shall  be  at  this  good  old  man's  disposal!" 

Indeed,  much  of  the  Pageant  was  extremely  silly. 
Yet,  as  it  progressed,  Brother  Copas  was  not  alone 
in  feeling  his  heart  lift  with  the  total  effect  of  it. 
Here,  after  all,  thousands  of  people  were  met  in  a  com- 
mon pride  of  England  and  her  history.  Distort  it  as 
the  performers  might,  and  vain,  inadequate,  as  might 
be  the  words  they  declaimed,  an  idea  lay  behind  it  all. 
These  thousands  of  people  were  met  for  a  purpose  in 
itself  ennobling  because  unselfish.  As  often  happens 
on  such  occasions,  the  rite  took  possession  of  them, 
seizing  on  them,  surprising  them  with  a  sudden  glow 
about  the  heart,  sudden  tears  in  the  eyes.  This  was 
history  of  a  sort.  Towards  the  close,  when  the  elm 
shadows  began  to  stretch  across  the  green  stage,  even 
careless  spectators  began  to  catch  this  infection  of 
nobility — this  feeling  that  we  are  indeed  greater  than 
we  know. 

In  the  last  act  all  the  characters — from  early  Briton 
to  Georgian  dame — trooped  together  into  the  arena. 
In  groups  marshalled  at  haphazard  they  chanted  with 
full  hearts  the  final  hymn,  and  the  audience  unbidden 
joined  in  chorus — 

296 


FINIS  CORONAT  OPUS 

"O  God!  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Our  shelter  from   the   stormy   blast 
And  our  eternal  home!" 

"Where  is  the  child?"  asked  Brother  Copas,  glanc- 
ing through  the  throng. 

He  found  her  in  the  thick  of  the  press,  unable  to  see 
anything  for  the  crowd  about  her,  and  led  her  off  to  a 
corner  where,  by  the  southern  end  of  the  Grand  Stand, 
some  twenty  Brethren  of  St.  Hospital  stood  shouting 
in  company — 

"A  thousand  evenings  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone, 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 
Before  the  rising  sun." 

"She  can't  see.  Lift  her  higher!"  sang  out  a  voice 
— Brother  Royle's. 

By  happy  chance  at  the  edge  of  the  group  stood  tall, 
good-natured  Alderman  Chope  who  had  impersonated 
Alfred  the  Great.  The  Brethren  begged  his  shield 
from  him,  and  mounted  Corona  upon  it,  all  holding 
it  by  its  rim  while  they  chanted — 

"The  busy  tribes  of  flesh  and  blood, 

With  all  their  hopes  and  fears, 
Are  carried  downward  by  the  flood 
And  lost  in  following  years. 
297 


BROTHER  COPAS 

"Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 
They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

"O  God!  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come; 
Be  Thou  our  guard  while  troubles  last 
And  our  perpetual  home!" 

Corona  lifted  her  voice  and  sang  with  the  old  men; 
while  among  the  excited  groups  the  swallows  skimmed 
boldly  over  the  meadow,  as  they  had  skimmed  every 
summer's  evening  since  English  History  began. 


298 


CONCLUSION 

BROTHER  COPAS  walked  homeward  along  the  river- 
path,  his  gaunt  hands  gathering  his  Beauchamp  robe 
behind  him  for  convenience  of  stride.  Ahead  of  him 
and  around  him  the  swallows  circleted  over  the  water- 
meads  or  swooped  their  breasts  close  to  the  current  of 
Mere.  Beside  him  strode  his  shadow,  and  lengthened 
as  the  sun  westered  in  a  haze  of  potable  gold.  In  the 
haze  swam  evening  odours  of  mints,  grasses,  herbs  of 
grace  and  virtue  named  in  old  pharmacopoeias  as  most 
medicinal  for  man,  now  forgotten,  if  not  nameless. 

The  sunset  breathed  benediction.  To  many  who 
walked  homeward  that  evening  it  seemed  in  that 
benediction  to  enwrap  the  centuries  of  history  they 
had  so  feverishly  been  celebrating,  and  to  fold  them 
softly  away  as  a  garment.  But  Brother  Copas  heeded 
it  not.  He  was  eager  to  reach  St.  Hospital  and  carry 
report  to  his  old  friend. 

"Upon  my  word,  it  was  an  entire  success.  ...  I 
have  criticised  the  Bambergers  enough  to  have  earned 
a  right  to  admit  it.  In  the  end  a  sort  of  sacred  fury 
took  hold  of  the  whole  crowd,  and  in  the  midst  of  it 

we  held  her  up — Corona — on  a  shield " 

299 


BROTHER  COPAS 

Brother  Bonaday  lay  panting.  He  had  struggled 
through  an  attack  sharper  than  any  previous  one — 
so  much  sharper  that  he  knew  the  end  to  be  not  far 
distant,  and  only  asked  for  the  next  to  be  swift. 

"  — And  she  was  just  splendid,"  said  Brother  Copas. 
"  She  had  that  unconscious  way  of  stepping  out  of  the 
past,  with  a  crown  on  her  head.  My  God,  old  friend, 
if  I  had  that  child  for  a  daughter " 

Brother  Bonaday  lay  and  panted,  not  seeming  to 
hear,  still  with  his  eyes  upturned  to  the  ceiling  of  his 
narrow  cell.  They  scanned  it  as  if  feebly  groping  a 
passage  through. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you,"  he  muttered — "More 
than  once  I  meant — tried — to  tell  you." 

"Hey?" 

Brother  Copas  bent  lower. 

"She — Corona — never  was  my  child.  .  .  .  Give 
me  your  hand.  .  .  .  No,  no;  it  *s  the  truth,  now. 
Her  mother  ran  away  from  me  ...  and  she,  Corona, 
was  born  ...  a  year  after  ...  in  America  .  .  . 
Coronation  year.  The  man — her  father — died  when 
she  was  six  months  old,  and  the  woman  .  .  .  knowing 
that  I  was  always  weak " 

He  panted,  very  feebly.  Brother  Copas,  still  hold- 
ing his  hand,  leaned  forward. 

"Then  she  died,  too.  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter? 
Her  message.  .  .  .  'Bluff/  you  would  call  it.  ... 
But  she  knew  me.  She  was  always  decided  in  her 
300 


CONCLUSION 

dealings  ...  to  the  end.  I  want  to  sleep  now.  .  .  . 
That's  a  good  man!" 

Brother  Copas,  seeking  complete  solitude,  found 
it  in  the  dusk  of  the  garden  beyond  the  Ambulatory. 
There,  repelling  the  benediction  of  sunset  that  still 
lingered  in  the  west,  he  lifted  his  face  to  the  planet 
Jupiter,  already  establishing  its  light  in  a  clear  space 
of  sky. 

"  Lord ! "  he  ingeminated,  "  forgive  me  who  counted 
myself  the  ironeist  of  St.  Hospital!" 

THE  END 


301 


Novels  and  Stories  by  "Q" 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
BROTHER  COPAS 

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